A Computer Hacking in Bohemia
by I-don't-have-it-with-me
Summary: Whose writing was that on the envelope that Sherlock received during the bomber-puzzle case? He now believes that he's found her-a one Ms. Irene Adler... But what is her connection to Moriarty? Just remember Sherlock, every rose has its thorn. T  Ch 8
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so just a quick note so you kind of know what to expect: In writing this story I tried to modernize _A Scandal in Bohemia_ while trying my best to keep as canon as possible-to both _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ and the new BBC series _Sherlock, _since I'm completely head-over-heels for both. Also, another good note to make is that even though I tried to give my writing a British style, I am not myself British, but Canadian, so if there are any mistakes in the slang or speech that I tried to use to give the characters their respective voices, or any small cultural differences that I don't know about, please feel free to let me know! Enjoy!

* * *

A Computer Hacking in Bohemia

Chapter 1: Carrying On

_Jim Moriarty looked from the explosives, to the gun in Sherlock's hand, to John, finally resting on Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock met his gaze evenly. The two seemed to communicate telepathically as time stretched forward in slow motion. John wasn't aware of any noise at all, save for the pounding of his own heart. _Come on Sherlock, _John urged mentally, _do it. _John reflected that there were worse ways to go. In fact, there were a lot of positive aspects to going out this way: it would be over quick, and, more importantly, he'd get to take this bomber maniac down with him. John noted with approval that Sherlock's finger was slowly constricting around the trigger, just about to squeeze when—_

There was a sudden rap on the door, and John nearly jumped out of his chair at the unexpected noise. He put his head in his hands, and reproved himself for being so silly. In the weeks following "that night at the pool", as the incident was referred to—when it was talked about at all—he had been on edge and at the ready for a fight all hours of the day. He couldn't remember ever feeling this level of anxiety save for in the days preceding his getting shot. That thought didn't bode particularly well for Dr. John Watson.

"Come in," he called as he raised his head to the door of his small office.

The door opened slowly, and just enough for Kendra to peek her face into the office. The medical secretary wore a somewhat distressed expression behind her glasses, "Doctor, I hate to ask—I know your shift is just ending, but Dr. Sawyer is late, Dr. Burns is sick, and we've got quite a line-up—"

John cut her off, "Of course I'll take patients until Dr. Sawyer can get here."

She breathed out a sigh of relief, and tipped her head, throwing her slightly frizzy, brown, ponytail forward, "Thank you, Doctor,"

John gave her what he hoped was a supportive smile, "It's not a problem—I certainly owe Sar—um, Dr. Sawyer, that much."

Of course, John would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he had an ulterior motive for staying. Even if it was only a few extra minutes, he felt that getting as much time as possible away from home was a good idea. Ever since the pool-incident Sherlock had become even more… well, _Sherlock_-like.

* * *

There was a soft, tentative knock at the door to the very messy flat of 221b Baker Street. While a part of Sherlock's brain surely registered the sensory data that the sound of human knuckles on a wooden surface presented, another part of his brain must have decided that it did not present information of importance, since the light sound was ignored. He continued to read off his computer screen as Mrs. Hudson quietly opened the door and made her way into the room. Quietly, that is, until multiple assaults on many of her senses (namely her sense of smell, her taste, and her sight) forced an exclamation of disgust from her. Certainly, Sherlock Holmes was lacking in certain domestic skills… but the mess that presented itself to her was truly not fit for human living conditions!

"Sherlock! What have you done?" Mrs. Hudson held her small hand, slightly curled, in front of her mouth, as her eyes, wide with horror, probed every messy nook and every disastrous cranny of the room.

"Would you like a list of all my activities since you last visited, or simply my most recent endeavor?" Sherlock asked rather distractedly, never taking his eyes off the screen of his laptop.

She began to pick up articles of clothing off the floor. When she had gathered some in her arms, and realized how little of a difference it made it the over-all state of the room, she abandoned her efforts with a mournful sigh, and let the clothes drop back down to the floor. After all she was their landlady, _not_ their housekeeper. "Well you certainly cannot entertain company in this mess," she reproached Sherlock in her mother-hen tone.

His eyes flicked up momentarily from his screen at that remark, "Who said anything about entertaining company?"

"A man is here to see you… didn't you here the ring? He says he has a most frightful problem on his hands, and he's extremely desperate to have you help him."

"The door bell must be broken again," he droned. Presently, he was clicking and typing away on his laptop which sat upon his chest. Sherlock himself was lethargically sprawled over the sofa, looking like he was in about the same condition as the flat. Suddenly he frowned, and the combined frustration of being interrupted in his work and running into yet another dead end in his research made him close the lid of his laptop forcefully. He sat upright on the sofa and placed his computer beside him. "Send him away," he commanded flatly.

"But Sherlock! He's all the way from—"

"I don't care if he's from the moon! I'm not taking anymore cases at the moment." He leaned forward placing his elbows on his knees, resting his chin on his thumbs, and steepling his fingers in front of his face. Sherlock's lids descended partly over his eyes to complete his trademark contemplative pose.

Mrs. Hudson's brow furrowed, and her mouth drew in a worried line, "I didn't realize that you had any cases at all."

Sherlock only responded to her comment with a slight twitch of his lips and sarcastic remark, "Even so, I cannot possibly entertain any company in this mess."

She turned and made her way from the room, all the while shaking her head.

On some level, Sherlock Holmes must have registered the sound of Mrs. Hudson closing the door behind her, but he quickly decided that it was irrelevant to his current train of thought.

A man with arthritis pain. A boy with a cold. A woman with a fungal infection under her left thumbnail. These kinds of ailments were the general trend of things as John began to anxiously wait his replacement.

He only saw one other patient before he looked up to find Dr. Sarah Sawyer framed in his doorway. He took a deep breath, and tried not to seem as uneasy as he felt, "Hello!" He winced slightly when he realized that his greeting was a mite too enthusiastic.

"Hi," Sarah reciprocated the awkwardly enthusiastic greeting. _At least we're both over-doing it_, John thought. "Thanks so much for doing this… there was just one thing after another, and then I had trouble with my car… anyways," she realized she was talking to him as if they were still involved, and stopped herself, a little bit embarrassed. "Thanks."

"No it's no problem. These things happen," John smiled broadly. There was a moment of awkward silence that seemed to last an eternity. Suddenly John was compelled to fill the silence with something, "Look, I am sorry—for what happened between us, I mean. It was a very difficult decision for me to make, and I—"

"John, just stop. I told you I understand, and I don't want to talk about it anymore. Okay?" Sarah wore a smile on her lips, but the look in her eyes made John's stomach turn.

John nodded, "'Kay. Have—have a good shift." He turned from her, with that same feeling of guilt, mixed with a feeling of loss that he'd seemed to be feeling around her lately.

* * *

When John walked into his apartment and saw that his flat mate was able to cause as much damage as five natural disasters his mood went from bad to worse. A very off-kilter, high-pitched tune made him cringe—Sherlock with his violin. _At least it isn't gunshots this time._ "Hello, Sherlock," he called to announce his presence—not that Sherlock made any noticeable response.

Walking into the kitchen he found every available space taken up by a complex, make-shift distillation apparatus, comprised of glass tubes, flasks, and rubber tubes attached to the faucet of the kitchen sink. His hand went to his forehead and lingered to rub his eye tiredly as he wandered over to the gas stove. He looked down to observe a distilling flask containing a foul-smelling liquid bubbling away over a gas flame. "Right. Going to bloody burn the place down," he mumbled. He clicked the element off.

Suddenly the violin screeched to a halt. John turned to face the entrance of the kitchen, a little startled to find Sherlock marching towards him, looking very much offended. "I'm in the middle of an experiment," he reached over and re-ignited the element.

A little fed-up, John took on his lecturing tone, "These organic chemicals are _extremely_ flammable! You can't just walk off while you do these sorts of experiments!"

Sherlock dismissed John's concern with a slight shrug of his shoulder, "Relax—I've only ever started two chemical fires in my life. And one of them didn't even spread outside the room. You seem uncharacteristically irritable today," Sherlock observed, "Is Sarah taking the break-up badly?" He thought it was the most likely cause for John's mood.

"I don't recall telling you that I'd decided to end it with Sarah." The doctor remembered distinctly that he didn't want to talk about it with anyone, much less his flat mate who had all the empathetic listening skills of a door knob. Sherlock had just began his explanation on how the marked decrease of phone calls received per day by John had led him to believe that there was some change in one of his relationships, when John interrupted, "Hang on… does that mean the _other_ fire you started spread through the building?" John's brow furrowed with great concern.

"That's hardly important now." Sherlock shut his eyes and pounded his fist to his forehead as if he had suddenly remembered the only thing that was truly important to him, "What matters right now is that damned Bohemian envelope!"

John couldn't quite keep the exasperation out of his voice, "Oh yes, the mysterious lady's handwriting." John spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders, "That handwriting could belong to anyone. It could belong to that lady curator—you know the one with the fake Vermeer."

"Mrs. Wenceslas? No, I've already checked. The writing is not hers." Sherlock, set back on the same train of thought as he had for the past several days, began to pace about the kitchen, "Moriarty had a message for me with each of the cases he had me solve. All of the loose ends are part of something bigger. Some bigger game…" He trailed off with a far-off look in his eye.

"This is becoming an obsession, Sherlock," John's words were disapproving, but the tone sounded… concerned.

Sherlock looked at John's face to find his mouth in a grim line, and his eyebrows drawn together at a high point on his forehead—_Yes,_ he thought, _Concern_.

"Have you considered that you are doing exactly what he wants?" Sherlock turned a questioning look on John, who elaborated, "Well, he wanted you to stop interfering with his criminal clients. Lately you've been so concerned with Moriarty himself, you haven't taken any cases. Not even the ones you used to find interesting."

"I would take a case if it appealed to me," Sherlock countered, "My standards are no higher now than they were before."

"Really? Because Mrs. Hudson told me you sent someone _else_ away who'd come to see you today. Even after he came all the way from the Czech Republic, you wouldn't even listen to the poor man's story," John, who was no longer able to stand the hunger that initially drove him to the kitchen in the first place, crouched down to rummage through cupboard. In doing so he failed to see the mischievous gleam that suddenly lit up Sherlock's features.

Sherlock bent over and yanked John up-right in one swift motion, "Come on John! Best grab you coat, it's quite cold out." With that he bustled out of the kitchen.

John let out a very tired, and a very hungry sigh, wondering at the sudden change in mood of his friend. He looked back at the burning element which he subsequently switched off—again. It seemed that Sherlock's experiment would have to wait. And so would John's supper. He grabbed his coat from where he'd placed it not so long ago, and wondered to himself how Sherlock knew how cold it was, even though he was sure the detective hadn't stepped outside all day.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called as he ran down the stairs. As the woman appeared, with a surprised and concerned look on her face Sherlock continued quickly, "That man who was here to see me today, did he leave contact information?"

"Well, yes, but I threw it away," Mrs. Hudson looked confused.

"Fetch it for me will you," what should have been a polite request sounded like a statement.

"You want me to sort through my rubbish to find a little piece of paper?"

"If you would be so kind," Sherlock clasped his hands and held them in front of his face. "This is the case John—the case I've been waiting for."

John had just taken his foot from the bottom step, "What do you mean? What case?"

"Do you remember the fourth bomber puzzle?"

Mrs. Hudson thrust a waste basket into Sherlock's hands, "You can pick through it yourself. I'm not going to get my hands full of germs." With that she turned and stalked away, having had quite enough of Sherlock's demands.

"The Golem, the Vermeer, the dead security guard-slash-astronomer?" John recalled.

"Precisely," Sherlock tore through Mrs. Hudson's rubbish, "The scheme that would have gotten thirty million quid to divide between all who were involved. Why would Moriarty choose to draw my attention to one of his more lucrative endeavours?"

John glanced at the mess Sherlock was making and winced as he imagined Mrs. Hudson's reaction to it. "I'm not sure. Perhaps he's already rich and money has little meaning to him?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, "Undoubtedly that's why he was _able_ to sacrifice the job, but not why he _chose_ to. There has to be some logical reason to it."

"I can't see any sense in it," John admitted after a moment of thought.

"Unless," Sherlock didn't raise his head from the trash he was sifting through, but he did manage to jab the air dramatically with his index finger, "The case itself was a clue."

"A clue to what?"

"That's what a Mr. Kramm will, hopefully, clear up for us," Sherlock triumphantly held up a tiny white piece of paper with a scribbled name, phone number, and address on it. "Let's go before Mrs. Hudson sees the mess I made." Sherlock rose and made his way to the door, John close at his heels—lest he should be caught alone by Mrs. Hudson's wrath.


	2. Chapter 2

Wow! Thanks to those who reviewed so quickly! I'm glad the first chapter seemed intriguing enough to capture some of your interest. And yes, I will be the first one to admit that capturing Sherlock is not an easy thing by any means... and it feels like I've been studying him for so long that I can't see the forest for the trees anymore. So any suggestions on that front would be most appreciated!

* * *

Chapter 2: The Politician's Problem

_An electronic beeping sounded and was amplified through the big empty room. John visibly jumped at the sound. Sherlock maintained his composure outwardly, but in his surprise his finger loosened around the trigger. _

_Jim Moriarty smiled, "Oh! That's just me. If you will excuse me from this very overly-dramatic moment, I do need to take this." Never breaking eye-contact with Sherlock, his hand reached into his breast pocket— _

Sherlock pulled out his phone—which John took to mean that he was beginning his preliminary research on the matter. John, meanwhile, flagged down a cab. Once they had settled in the back seat, John admitted he wasn't convinced, "What exactly is it that links the fourth puzzle to this… Mr. Kramm?"

"You said that Mrs. Hudson informed you that Kramm travelled to see me all the way from the Czech Republic. Mrs. Wenceslas was also from the Czech Republic. The Golem assassin took his name from a Prague folk tale. And of course there's that Bohemian envelope with the mystery woman's handwriting."

Watson's eyebrows shot up, "So you think that all this leads to her?"

"Of course not John," Sherlock chastised dismissively, "I don't have nearly enough facts to come to such a grand conclusion. We only know that a connection between Mr. Kramm and Moriarty _may _exist." Sherlock's statement resonated with finality, and John knew that the rest of the cab ride would be a silent one.

When the cab pulled to a stop John was surprised to see that they were in front of a very high-classed hotel over-looking Hyde Park, "_This _is where your client is staying?"

"Hm. The Banglioni Hotel. The rooms go up to 690 pounds a night here."

"Well, at least there'll be money in this case," John grinned as he exited the vehicle.

* * *

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" upon knocking on the door of the appropriate hotel room, a bearded man, about in his early forties, welcomed the detective warmly with an eager handshake. "I've heard much of your reputation as a man who can hold his own—particularly in the most curious situations. I've been told that if you accept a case, it's as good as solved," he spoke excellent English laced with a strong German accent.

Sherlock furrowed his brow to express his displeasure at the hand-shake, but never the less accepted the compliment with a dry grin. "You have me at a disadvantage. You know my reputation, but I don't even know your name."

The man laughed, but even John who was trailing closely behind Holmes could tell that he was nervous, "Couldn't understand my handwriting I see? I wrote my name on that note there. Mr. Kramm… but you may call me Aldrik." He glanced anxiously from John to Sherlock, "Who's this?"

"This is my associate, Dr. John Watson. He's been instrumental in the solving of many of my cases," Sherlock presented John with a slight wave of his hand.

John smiled politely and promptly stuck out his hand, "Hello, nice to meet you!"

Aldrik Kramm simply looked at John's hand, and looked back to Sherlock, "This case is meant for _your_ expertise… I was not aware you had a… _side-kick_. The situation is of some sensitivity, and you'll understand if I express my wish to limit the number of people involved in its investigation."

John blinked once, and his smile faded slightly as he slowly withdrew his hand, "Umm, yes—Sherlock, I'll just be outside."

Sherlock, to John's surprise, caught his arm, preventing him from going anywhere, "We conduct our investigations together—as _partners_." Sherlock tried to emphasize that John was not simply an expendable side-kick.

Aldrik's brow furrowed and he looked at John, "Partners?"

"He means colleagues," John supplied quickly, pulling his arm from Sherlock's grasp. As flattered as John was that Sherlock felt so strongly about John's participation in his cases, he did wish that Sherlock wouldn't express it in such a…_naïve _way.

"He's a colleague that I trust—that should be good enough for you. We either both take the case, or neither of us do."

Kramm shook his head disbelievingly, "Alright, fine. Any other demands that you want me to cater to?" The question was spoken in a sarcastic tone.

Whether Sherlock didn't catch the sarcasm, or whether he simply ignored it was unclear, "Your name is _not_ Aldrick Kramm. I don't conduct business with those who conceal facts from me."

Aldrick Kramm, or, rather, Not-Aldrik-Kramm looked startled. He looked for a moment as if he were unsure what to say. Finally he spoke in a frightened whisper, "How did you _know_?"

Sherlock began to explain his methodology as if he were explaining simple math, "First of all, you left a note on a piece of paper ripped from a pad, and yet you're staying in a suite at the Banglioni Hotel. Generally, people with finances enough to afford a room like this have a very profitable way of making a living, and generally people like that leave their contact information on the back of their very own, very professional-looking business card. Inference: you wanted to hide something printed on the hypothetical business card. Of course, that clue was hit-or-miss, but your handwriting was much more suggestive. The most impressed character on the paper was the dot after "Mr"—as if you held your pen on the spot for several seconds before you decided what to write next. I don't give you much credit for being an overly intelligent man, but I am sure that you don't have to stop to think about how to spell your own name. Finally, there is, of course, the way you wrote the name "Kramm" itself. It's the neatest batch of handwriting on the whole paper, as if you had to concentrate when writing it. Usually a person's writing is the most careless when they write their own name—because of how frequently they write it." Sherlock took a breath, "Now please begin by telling me the full story. If I can't depend on the facts you give me then I can't very well solve your problem, can I?" Sherlock paused for a beat, "Well, that's not true, I probably still could—it's just that I wouldn't bother."

Not-Aldrik-Kramm pulled at his collar anxiously, "Well, I've obviously found the right man for the job. My true name is Wilhelm Ormstein. In one week the election that will determine the _hejtman_… or the president, of the Regional Assembly of _Středočeský kraj_—known to you as the Central Bohemian Region of the Czech Republic—will take place. Mr. Holmes, you have to understand—the reason I tried to hide my identity is because I am running for that position. I cannot afford any risk to my reputation at this point!"

"And your current dilemma casts you in somewhat of a negative light," Sherlock commented.

"Yes, I suppose you could say that," Ormstein conceded. A little defeated, he waved at both men to come in and take a seat. As they all settled into their spots around the sitting room of the hotel suite, Ormstein continued, "I suppose I should start at the beginning. My wife and I married quite young, you see, and for a good while, we'd been having problems. One night, some years ago, I….uhh, there's no easy way to say this… A young lady and I had… _relations_." He stared at his shoes, "This young lady was then—" he swallowed, "paid for her services."

John's head snapped up from his note pad upon which he had begun writing. His eyebrows were nearly at his hairline.

"You were involved with a prostitute," Sherlock stated calmly, with absence of any judgment.

"Yes. I can see the doctor does not approve… but Czech laws concerning these activities are not so restrictive as the English ones. I did nothing illegal," Wilhelm defended.

Sherlock tipped his head, "Yet it would not necessarily be socially acceptable for a politician to have a history of cheating on his wife with a… professional." Sherlock considered this a moment, "Even if this young lady does come forward, and tells the public about your activities, it's still your word against hers. There won't be many that'll put any stock into what she says."

The politician cleared his throat nervously, "Yes… well, there's more to the story than just that. You see… I uhh… videoed the act."

John's reaction was less explicit this time, but Sherlock noticed that his brows furrowed in disapproval. The corner of Sherlock's mouth pulled upward in an ironic grin, "Ah, now we get to the root of the problem."

John piped in, "So now the young lady is blackmailing you with the video?"

Ormstein hesitated, "Well… _someone_ is… but not the prostitute herself. I didn't give her a copy of it after all. And as far as I know…" he hesitated again, "She wasn't even aware that we were being recorded."

Sherlock noticed in the corner of his eye that John was shaking his head ever so slightly, "So if the young lady isn't blackmailing you, who else do you think would be?"

"Well the only copy of the recording was kept on my personal laptop… very few people have had access to my home office where it was kept. Fewer people could have broken through the security on the computer.

"A few months ago my personal assistant resigned… supposedly to pursue academic pursuits. My PA would have had unsupervised access to my home office for hours at a time, and I believe possessed the ability to hack into a computer system like mine.

"Only a month ago, I received an e-mail threatening to send the video to both the media and my wife. I was able to trace the IP address to right here in London… sure enough, I found out that my former PA has also made a living here in London. "

Sherlock thought about this, "Why haven't you tried buying it back from him?"

"_Her_, Mr. Holmes, _her_. And she won't sell. Her demands are unreasonable. She only wants me to drop out of the election. She won't accept anything less than that."

The consulting detective's brow furrowed, "I see. So if she's not blackmailing you for money… it's a personal matter. What was it that you did to your assistant to turn her loyalties so utterly against you?"

"I don't have an idea!" Wilhelm protested. Sherlock simply looked at him and waited silently. "Well… there was one incident, where I may have given her some… unwanted attention. But as soon as I saw that she wasn't interested, I backed off, I swear!"

Sherlock's face reflected that he got the piece of information that he was looking for, "Yes. In that case, I do agree that it is probably your former assistant who is blackmailing you."

"You've got to help me… I've hired many specialists to help retrieve my property—"

"What, you mean thieves?" John interrupted.

Wilhelm's mouth twitched in annoyance, "It's not thievery if the thing rightfully belongs to you. They've searched her apartment, her office at work, they've hacked into her computers—they even stole her purse once. There's no sign of any memory stick, or DVD containing the video anywhere," Ormstein was plainly desperate. "Here—this is the woman's home address, and where she works," he handed Sherlock the information. "Please, Mr. Holmes…. I'm desperate. You need to find that video, and bring it back to me, so I can destroy it for good."

Sherlock accepted the slip of paper, but remained silent for several moments. John thought that he was probably sorely disappointed at the simplicity of this case... after all, there wasn't even a murder involved. John began to think that the fact that the politician was from the Czech Republic was just a coincidence. This case didn't seem to have a connection with Moriarty at all.

Finally Sherlock stood, "I will accept your case. You said we have seven days until the election? That should be plenty of time. You may negotiate the fee with my associate." Sherlock reached the door to the suite, and stopped as if another thought had occurred to him. He turned to face Mr. Wilhelm Ormstein once again, "Oh yes, one more thing—what is the young woman's name?"

"Candy Fantasies."

John and Sherlock both stared at the man with blank expressions.

Ormstein looked embarrassed, "Oh! You mean my former personal assistant! Irene. Irene Adler."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Trouble with Texting

_Moriarty pulled out a cell-phone, and put it to his ear. He listened for a moment, "Are you sure?"_

_Another silent moment._

"_Hm." A corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided, sinister grin, "Well, I have to say I appreciate that." He flipped the phone shut and stuck it back in his pocket. "Well, boys, it would seem that we're at a bit of a stalemate," Moriarty waved his arms to indicate their situation. "I'm afraid I simply can_not_ ignore my other responsibilities any longer, so I'm going to have to end this little play-date prematurely," he shrugged apologetically. He held up his index finger, "But stay tuned—"his voice took on a rich and dramatic tone—"for the conclusion of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson—same time, same channel!"_

Somebody changed the channel of the television in the restaurant, to something that was outside John's realm of telly interests—which he had to admit, ever since his long stretch of unemployment, had grown to be quite large. Taking another mouthful from his plate, he focused his attention on the man across from him, "So what do you think?"

Sherlock brought his eyes into focus, "About what?"

"Well… for one thing, how we're going to find the video file. Could be hard to get a hold of."

"Oh. That," he sounded bored, "I've already figured that out."

John looked surprised—although he felt that by now he should be used of Sherlock's quick deductions, "Where is it then?"

"Well, if it's not in her apartment, or in her purse, or on either her home or work computers, what does that leave?" Sherlock's tone was not the patronizing one he'd taken on at the hotel suite, but rather a more patient one—as if he meant to teach John rather than ridicule him.

John had his fork half-way to his mouth, "Well… I suppose she'd have to keep it on her, then. On a small memory stick or something."

Sherlock nodded in approval, "Quite right."

As John digested his food, he digested his friend's deduction, "But… how do you know for sure that it's not in her flat?" He shrugged, "Maybe it's just hidden really well, and no one's been able to find it so far."

Sherlock shook his head, "That's a rather remote possibility. Even if the file was originally hidden somewhere in her home, after the first break-in I doubt she would have left it there at the risk of it being discovered during the second break-in—which I'm certain she knew was coming."

John nodded, "So, what's our first step?"

"We can't do anything more tonight—but tomorrow we'll wait until she leaves for work, and then we'll search her flat."

John began to nod again, then stopped himself, "Hang on—you said the video file wouldn't be _in_ her flat…"

The waitress approached the table, "Can I get you anything else?" She then turned to Sherlock specifically, "Are you _sure_ you don't even want a glass of water?"

"No, thank you—Actually, I think we'll take the bill now please," Sherlock used all the appropriately polite words, even though his flat tone indicated that he used them without really understanding why they were necessary.

She nodded, "Sure." She disappeared as quickly as she'd come.

Sherlock regarded John, "That's why we won't waste time looking for it there."

John's features took on a look of confusion, as he considered what the miscommunication might be this time. Sherlock's mind had made yet another leap that, as obvious as it might seem to him, was rather ambiguous to John. "Alright Sherlock, let me put it this way—_why_ must we search her flat if we know that the video isn't to be found there?"

The waitress returned with the bill. John gave her a friendly smile, "Thank you very much." He laid down some notes on the table, as both men stood.

Sherlock reached the door of the restaurant first, "To look for any connections to Moriarty—obviously."

"Oh… right," John, beginning to feel the content sleepiness that a good meal sometimes brings on, stifled a yawn, "_Obviously_."

Sherlock sensed a lack of enthusiasm and even a hint of sarcasm from John, "I don't much care whether or not this politician wins his election, or whether his wife chooses to leave him—but this woman, Irene Adler—she's a very likely candidate."

"A candidate for what?"

"For the woman, John."

John nodded, "Ohh, I see. So you think Irene Adler is the envelope-writer?"

"I think she _could_ be," Sherlock corrected. "She could have had easy access to Bohemian stationary while she was in the employ of Mr. Ormstein in the Czech Republic, and she would have been in London at the time the envelope was planted. But to know for sure, we need to search her flat."

"Ah," to John, it sounded like a long-shot. "One thing though… I have to work tomorrow, so you'll have to go to Irene's flat on your own."

Sherlock stopped and looked back at him, "Can't you miss one day?"

"Umm… noo, I can't—I have responsibilities, Sherlock. Going to work when expected is one of them," John strolled along beside his friend.

"You could call in sick. That's a socially acceptable way to miss work," Sherlock suggested.

John gave a humorless grin, "Only if you are _actually_ sick." The familiar door of 221 Baker Street came in sight, and grew closer with each step the pair took.

"Well, that's ridiculous John—I don't know of any mildly symptomatic pathogens with a short enough incubation period that would get you sick in time for work tomorrow."

John knit his eyebrows and studied Sherlock as if trying to determine if he were joking. As far as he could tell—although according to Sherlock, John's perceptions were rather limited—Sherlock seemed to be serious. "I wasn't suggesting…" he sighed, "Never mind."

When they entered the flat John wearily made his way to his room. The meal was very satisfying, now all he needed was his nice warm bed. John stretched out an arm, and rubbed the back of his neck drowsily, "'Night Sherlock." Another thought occurred to him, "And just so we're clear—please _don't_ infect me with any viral or bacterial strain while I'm asleep, no matter what the incubation period is."

A wry smile appeared on Sherlock's face, "What about a fungal infection?"

John ignored him. _This time he's joking_, he thought. _I hope_.

* * *

The next morning Sherlock was long gone before John had woken up. John knew that whenever Sherlock was awake before him, it meant that he had never gone to bed the night before. John wandered downstairs and navigated through the elaborate labyrinth of chemical apparatus in the kitchen. He put down some toast for his breakfast, and started a pot of coffee.

He'd just sat down to read the paper when Mrs. Hudson came in carrying a basket of freshly-folded laundry, "Oh good—you're up! This one's your pile, dear. Mind you—don't get used to it. I only thought I'd help out with laundry this week because the both of you have been a little out of sorts lately."

John nodded absently—he was so used to Mrs. Hudson's warnings that he practically re-iterated the same response each time she made one of her threats, "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson—we certainly appreciate it."

"Sherlock seems to be getting a bit of his old gumption back though, with the new case and all. Oh, he told me before he left that he'd texted you the address incase you changed your mind, and you felt like joining him."

John turned the page of the news paper, trying to suppress the appeal he felt at the prospect of being a part of Sherlock's investigation, "I have to work today." The statement was meant to convince himself more than to inform Mrs. Hudson.

"Ah, of course. Always duty before pleasure for you," she puttered around the kitchen, tidying up around Sherlock's glorified chemistry set. She caught a whiff of one of the chemicals and shrank back immediately, coughing and waving the air away from her face, "Awful smell! Like… nail-polish remover…"

John looked up over the newspaper. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson… I wouldn't inhale too much of that if I were you," he warned.

She cleared her throat, and strategically avoided the unfinished experiment, "Speaking of "pleasure"… whatever happened to that nice young girl you brought home? What was her name… oh, Sarah, wasn't it?"

John looked at his watch, "Speaking of "duty", I'd better start getting ready. Thanks again for the clean laundry." He stood, abandoning his breakfast and his newspaper on the table, and leaving Mrs. Hudson to shrug off her tenant's odd behaviour.

* * *

The woman rubbed her eyes tiredly and yawned as she walked into her kitchen.

_Apparel: Large sweatshirt, baggy flannel pants—sleep-wear._

_Hair: brown, short._

_Stature:_ _5'5"… and approximately 113.5 lbs._

_Right handed, practical, well-read, high level of education, likes sweets... _and several other descriptors flicked through his mind, the relevance of which still needed to be determined.

Irene's hand dropped, and her face rearranged itself from the distortion of the yawn. Sherlock looked on from the window of an empty flat he'd broken into very early that morning. The empty flat was in a building directly across the street from that of Irene Adler's, and he reflected that he was quite lucky that it had such a good view into the woman's kitchen. As he observed her morning routine, he couldn't help but notice that she was very… aesthetic. It wasn't only her face—which he was certain most men would find quite striking—but also the way that she carried herself. For a woman who had suffered two break-ins and a mugging in a very short amount of time, she radiated quite a bit of…quiet, calm, confidence. As if she were completely in control… as if she were untouchable. She was either very stupid for thinking that Ormstein would abandon his efforts, or very sure of her ability to keep one step ahead of him. And judging by how successful she'd been so far, Sherlock thought that the latter was more likely.

He thought he caught a small twitch of her lips, and narrowed his eyes as if to focus them on the area of interest. Was she talking to herself? No… she was opening her mouth too wide, and the movements of her mouth were much too slow and deliberate—it was more likely that she was… singing.

He considered this woman who would sing, without a care in the world, amidst threatening the reputation of a powerful—if not overly bright—man like Ormstein, and despite himself, Sherlock was intrigued.

* * *

John had just entered his office—a good fifteen minutes before his shift officially began—when his mobile beeped. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket to read the text.

_Help_

It was from Sherlock. John's jaw clenched and he pressed his lips together. Knowing Sherlock that message could mean anything from "Help, I'm strapped to a bomb," to "Help, I dropped my pen." And the worst part of it was that John knew that Sherlock had _purposefully_ left it vague. He toyed with the idea of ignoring Sherlock's message, and going about his day as planned.

He obliterated the idea after a split second of toying. John let out a sharp breath of frustration. He opened the door to his office and took long strides down the hall. On the off chance that Sherlock really was in trouble John knew he couldn't ignore his request for help.

"John! Are you alright?"

John closed his eyes in exasperation for a split second, _Sarah_. He turned to face her, "Um… no, actually there's an, um, emergency at home."

Sarah nodded in understanding—if anyone could understand one of John's "emergencies" it was her, "Right… well, don't worry about it. I'll cover you here."

John nodded, "Thank you Sarah… really, thanks!"

Sarah smiled, "Just getting you back for yesterday. Try to be careful, okay?"

John nodded again, "Yeah, sure." Without another word he took off again down the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

Alright, so if it felt like the last chapter didn't really _get_ anywhere, it's because originally chapter 3 and 4 were supposed to be the same chapter, and it was just getting too long, so I had to split it up somehow... so, sorry about that. Also, as obsessed with writing this thing as I am, I'm swamped with final projects and exams right now, so next week I'm not going to get around to writing the next chapter until after next week at the earliest. But hang in there! The next chapter we officially meet Irene Adler (I know, I know, took my sweet time, didn't I?), and Ormstein's situation seems to get even more complicated with the introduction of a Mr. John Clay on the scene. (Here's a fun Holmes trivia question: Which Holmes story is John Clay from?)

Thanks again to those who like my story enough to review! I certainly appreciate knowing that someone's reading! And finally constructive criticism is always much appreciated!

* * *

Chapter 4: When one door closes, a window can always be forced open.

_John stood slowly, "Sh-" his voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and tried again, "Sherlock. I—I think he's gone."_

_John tried to estimate how long they had been holding their positions by the pool, waiting for some sign that Moriarty would show himself again. Five minutes? Fifteen minutes? Fifty minutes? He wasn't really sure… All he knew was that the whole time he'd been sitting on the cold, hard floor and Sherlock had been standing very still, pointing the hand gun steadily at the explosive._

"_Yes," Sherlock agreed. "You go on ahead to inform the police, I'll keep the gun aimed at the explosive—just in case." John noticed the hollow, distracted quality to his friend's voice. In fact, he looked slightly… _confused_. It was the look he often got when he'd stumbled onto a clue that didn't quite fit the rest of the facts._

"_What? No, we're not splitting up… and I'm certainly not just going to leave you here." John looked at Sherlock to find him very deep in thought, barely even hearing what he was saying. "Sherlock, what is it? What's wrong?"_

_Sherlock's answer was interrupted by the distinctive sound of a door clinking open and banging shut. John and Sherlock both tensed. Had Moriarty changed his mind again? Was he hoping to catch them off guard? Or was this some psychological game that Moriarty was playing with Sherlock that John didn't fully comprehend? A figure approached, barely outlined in the dark… the footsteps echoed loudly. _

_The figure stepped into the light, holding a gun out in front of them, "Freeze! This is the police! Drop your weapon and put your hands—Freak?"_

John hopped out of the cab onto the wet sidewalk at the indicated address. He immediately swept it up and down with his gaze, looking for the problematic consulting detective.

"You made good time," Sherlock was standing in an alleyway next to the building where John assumed Irene Adler lived. He was looking up at the said building calculatingly, holding his gloved hand over his eyes, shielding them from the cold drizzle that had started.

John let out a sardonic laugh, "Yeah, well, that's because I thought you needed my help. Silly me."

Sherlock glanced at him, "I _do_ need your help. This woman is cleverer than I anticipated—"

"No, Sherlock, I thought you might be in _trouble_. You know, my life doesn't necessarily revolve around your investigations. I have my _own_ job… I even had my own girlfriend once upon a time... not that that could've lasted," John's voice tapered into a mumble, though the volume was still sufficient for Sherlock to hear.

Sherlock was looking at John now, with a slightly perplexed look—like a child who wasn't quite sure what they had done to get their parents angry. Then, all of a sudden his features smoothed into an expression of understanding, "_That's_ what this is about, isn't it? It's about Sarah."

John shook his head, "What? No—this has to do with you expecting me to come running every time you call. Er… text, mostly."

Sherlock dismissed the idea, "No, I don't think that's it. You know my habits well enough to know that it was more likely that I simply didn't bother to text you a full sentence than it was that I was in mortal danger. You came rushing over anyway—without a call or a text to confirm if I was actually in peril."

John opened his mouth to argue… but Sherlock was right, he didn't stop to see if Sherlock was really _in_ danger despite his suspicion that he wasn't.

"You enjoy these investigations—and though you do try to avoid skipping out on your responsibilities, I sense there's more to it than that. This isn't about me interrupting your day at work… this is about you blaming me for your relationship with Sarah ending—although since _you_ ended it with _her_ I can't imagine why it would be my fault."

John stopped to think about that. Had he really been blaming Sherlock all this time for the decision John had to make? Was that why he was being so short with him lately? John confronted the possibility that Sherlock really hadn't grown worse in his habits lately, and maybe that was just an excuse John had been using to avoid him. John met Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock was watching him curiously, with uplifted brows. John imagined that his expression could be interpreted as "Can we move on now?"

John decided that for now, it might be best to do just that. He looked at the ground, and paused to lick his lips. It only took him a moment to put aside his previous emotional turmoil—to be dealt with at a more opportune time, "So, what is it that you needed help with, anyway?" His voice wasn't exactly cheerful, but it wasn't angry either.

Over the time Sherlock had known John he found many things that he admired about the man. One of them was that he wasn't prone to holding onto emotions after he expressed them. Sherlock was sure John would think about what had been said, and would come to his own conclusions on the matter, once and for all resolving this "Sarah problem". The sooner he could do that, the sooner Sherlock would regain an assistant who wasn't so emotionally distracted. Sherlock convinced himself that it was for that logic alone that he wanted to see John at ease with this particular situation again.

Sherlock turned his gaze back up at the building, "Like I was saying, Ms. Adler is much cleverer than I anticipated her to be. Not only does she have 3 separate, high-quality locks on her door—"

"Sherlock, I know you don't think much of the intelligence of people who aren't… well, _you_, but that's common sense after your home has been broken into a couple of times," John's expression had lightened slightly.

Sherlock's mouth twitched into that half-smile he always wore when he was particularly impressed by someone else's intelligence, "Yes, but to move into a flat across the hall from a 60-year-old, female, single, retired schoolteacher—_that_ is quite brilliant."

John smirked, "Oh yes, because little old ladies are excellent security."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "You'd be surprised. They're nosier and more observant then most detectives I know… don't you see? The locks aren't to deter burglars—merely to delay them until the little old lady across the way—who stays home all day, all alone, probably bored out of her wits—notices something suspicious and calls the police."

John looked skeptical, "I think you may be giving this Adler more credit than she deserves. People don't _plan _all that."

Sherlock looked back up at the building once again, "I do. And as a result I have Mrs. Hudson as a landlady. Regardless of Ms. Adler's intentions, the problem still stands—clearly we can't use the door."

"I think it's safe to say that you're an exception to most norms." John glanced up at the building for the first time. Following Sherlock's gaze, John's eyes rested on a window—just above a concrete ledge that circled all the way around the building. Suddenly Sherlock's plan clicked, "Come on… are you saying you brought me all the way here to _give you a boost_?" John wasn't annoyed so much as… incredulous.

"Well how else was I supposed to get up to the window?"

"I don't know…" John lowered himself to one knee, on the cold, wet ground despite his protests. "You could have tried thinking outside the box with that massive intellect of yours… in fact a box would have done quite nicely."

Sherlock stepped onto John's knee, he heard John grunt with discomfort, "No… there's nothing like that around here. And besides, the nosy neighbour was liable to notice something out of the ordinary like that lying around." Sherlock found he was a few inches shy of being able to reach the ledge. He stepped up on John's shoulder.

"Oof!" John complained through gritted teeth, "You know for someone who never eats, you're quite heavy."

"Could be worse," Sherlock reached up and grabbed onto the ledge. He hoisted himself up. There was barely enough room for him to kneel, and he pressed up against the wall beside the window.

John stood, rubbing his shoulder, "How's that?"

"I could have inherited the same body-type as Mycroft." Sherlock slid the window open, and then disappeared through the window. He popped his head back out, "I'll unlock the door from the inside. But be quiet when you're passing through the hall."

John nodded, continuing to massage his shoulder. He made his way into the building, up the stairs and eventually to the door that he figured corresponded with the window Sherlock had slipped through. He stole a glance behind him at the door of the flat across the hall. Try as he might, he couldn't see how Sherlock had deduced that the resident was a 60-year-old, female, retired schoolteacher.

The door in front of him opened a crack, and John pushed the door the rest of the way open. He saw that Sherlock Holmes had already bounded away from the door, and was heading towards the kitchen, "You search the sitting room—I'll be in the kitchen."

John closed the door gently behind him. He was about to ask Sherlock what exactly it was that he was looking for, when he spotted something on the table in the far corner that would probably be a good place to start.

* * *

As Sherlock had passed through the sitting room he had noticed several things about the abode that would contribute to Ms. Adler's profile. On her bookshelf, for instance, were books written in five different languages: _English, Spanish, French, German, and a language of one of the native groups of North America_—though he didn't know enough on the subject to be certain which. There was no discernible pattern of fiction and non-fiction among the different languages. _Fluent in at least the first four languages. _He'd also noticed several periodicals on her coffee table—_they generally pertain to anthropological studies_. It was a subject he himself had studied in some aspects. _There is a slight emphasis on sociocultural anthropology._ That fit with the information Ormstein had given them—the paper containing Ms. Adler's address also said that Irene worked in the British Museum. He had seen, also, that she was a great music enthusiast—_several shelves packed with CDs._ _Types of music present… unfamiliar. Follow up later._ The television was used often (_the power button was shiny with wearing_), probably not for watching television, but rather for watching films (_the channel-changing buttons didn't show the same wear patterns_). The sitting room table had several cup rings, and water marks, but they only radiated from one position—_Eats alone in front of the television often—unlikely she has a significant partner._

He moved on to the kitchen, he immediately noticed a pattern emerging between the two rooms—_Irene Adler isn't planning on staying in London long-term._ _At least not in this particular flat._ There was no more investment in the flat than was absolutely necessary for the present. The walls were the same colour as when she moved in, and there was a general absence of tiny personal touches that Sherlock often found that people liked to use to make a residence "their own".

He glanced first at the refrigerator, which had a generally collaged appearance about it. There seemed to be letters and post-cards from all over the world posted on it. He read a few and determined that they were from many different people from all over the world. _Most of them are thanking her or congratulating her for something… difficult to say what_—most of them weren't even in English. Some letters contained requests to stay in touch, but since he didn't observe any sequels from any one person, he reflected that Irene Adler probably never responded. _Nonetheless the letters are somehow important to her… or else why keep them on the door of her refrigerator?_

His eyes caught something else of interest—he reached out and grabbed the grocery list from beneath the magnet. _She's an American,_ he realized for the first time as he scanned the list, his eyes settling on the reminder to buy "cheese-flavored crackers", as opposed to "cheese-_flavoured_ crackers". If that wasn't enough evidence, he spotted another note in her handwriting with a date for an appointment on it. The date was written month/date/year in typical American fashion, instead of the British sequence of date/month/year. _Definitely American._

Something else he noticed about her handwriting, however—something much more significant. When he pulled the Bohemian envelope from his pocket to compare the handwriting he found—

"Find anything?" John had walked up behind him.

"A bit," Sherlock turned to see John trying very hard (and failing) to hide a smug grin on his face. "What did you find?" Sherlock doubted John found anything he'd missed himself, but it couldn't hurt to compare notes.

"Irene Adler is a 28-year-old, single, American woman, born and raised in New Jersey. As soon as she received her M.A. in sociocultural anthropology from Stanford University, she began travelling the world—she's been _everywhere_, just studying different cultures… what's it called? Doing ethnographies. She's good at it too. She's been praised as both "incredibly objective" _and_ as "particularly talented at creating rapports with individuals of other cultures" by one of the professors she's worked under. Sort of odd that she's can be so good at both. A little while back she decided to take a break from research, and took a job with Ormstein—he thought someone so experienced with people would help him improve his campaign. Ormstein's story pretty much filled in the rest… she came to London, got a job at the British Museum where she gives tours and classes on different cultures of the world. Her speciality is Iroquois culture—a native cultural group of North America. It's just temporary though. She's on a contract that ends this Friday. Oh, and she loves food and music." John looked like the cat that ate the canary, "Did I miss anything?"

By the end of John's speech Sherlock had drawn himself to his full height, and straightened his shoulders. He took a breath and furrowed his brow, "That's uhh, very good. How did you…?"

John decided that he'd had his fun and figured he'd let Sherlock off the hook. He tipped his head toward the sitting room and quirked a smile, "She left her laptop here… and apparently she has a bad habit of _not_ logging-out of her Facebook account."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "Facebook?" He wasn't exactly smiling, but John thought that he was genuinely amused anyhow.

"Looks like this was all a waste of time though…" John shrugged his shoulders, "I couldn't find any connection to Moriarty. And anyway she certainly doesn't _seem_ like the criminal type."

Sherlock shot John a look, "She's an extortionist."

John sighed, "Well, she may be blackmailing Mr. Ormstein… but…"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "But what?"

John seemed to look for his words, "Well, Ormstein isn't really the _greatest_ guy in the world… now, I'm not saying that he _deserves_ it… but sometimes you have to sleep in the bed that you make for youself."

Sherlock shook his head, "I never will understand why people look down upon _my_ methods, and yet they make far grander conclusions about people, on far less information. You've already casted the villain and the victim of the story before you have all the facts." Sherlock presented Irene's grocery list and the envelope side by side, "Her handwriting's a match."

John focused his gaze on the writing, and opened his mouth to say something, but instead he stopped and listened. Sherlock did the same. There was a faint voice that could be heard in the hall outside. A faint _singing_ voice.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, and he gestured to the kitchen window. It wasn't hard for John to guess Sherlock's intention. Sherlock walked over and slid the window open. John leaned to Sherlock's ear and whispered, "It might not be her… she ought to be at work right now."

"Oh, it's definitely her. Hurry up," Sherlock slipped out onto the tiny ledge, and lowered himself down, still hanging onto the ledge with both hands. Then he dropped, letting go of the ledge and falling the ground. It did not look that pleasant to John… but the voice grew closer—it sounded like it was right outside the door to the flat now. If it really was Irene Adler, it wouldn't take her long to figure out that the door she had left secure this morning had been unlocked.

Sherlock saw John's feet slip over the edge, and then the rest of his companion dropped over. John hit the ground hard, but he recovered quickly. He stood and made like he was going to run for it. Sherlock held him back however, and John seeing that his friend was pressed up against the brick of the building, he followed suit. John looked up, and saw that though the ledge was thin, it would conceal them from the perspective of the kitchen window.

The men hadn't made it out of the flat a moment too soon, for it wasn't long after that John heard the window slide shut. John wondered if she even noticed that her home had been broken into.

Then he remembered that Sherlock had actually called her _clever_... John thought it was safe to presume that she noticed.

"Well doctor…"

John glanced at the man who'd dragged him here in the first place.

"Time to be getting back to your patients, don't you think?"


	5. Chapter 5

I shudder to think how long it's been since I updated, and I apologize! Honestly, school was insane, then there was Christmas, which was in a way, even busier. On top of all that this is a sort of a pivotal chapter, and I had to be sure to get it right. Anyway, enough of my excuses, I hope you enjoy, and I hope I haven't taken so long to update that you've lost interest. The next chapter will certainly not take as long as this one did! I hope you all had happy holidays, and find it easy to get back into the routine while starting off a brand new year!

(By the way, John Clay is from the story _The Red-Headed League_)

As always, feedback (positive or constructive) is greatly appreciated!

* * *

Chapter 5 – Forbidden Doughnuts

_John blinked a couple times, to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he saw, "Sergeant Donovan? Oh thank God… the police," John didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he released it. _

_She holstered her gun as she mumbled to herself, "Of course… the entire bloody police force is out looking for you two, and _I _get to be the lucky one that finds you."She pulled out her radio and called it in. It would only be a matter of time before Lestrade and the rest of his team came running. Sherlock did not look forward to the many questions that would be asked and the time that would be wasted—all for bureaucracy's sake._

_Sherlock lowered his gun as well, "Sally, I can say with all honesty that this is the first time you aren't the very last person I wished to see come around that corner."John noticed that the hollowness of his voice had vanished, leaving the usual cocky bravado he reserved especially for Anderson and Donovan._

_Sally, however, had discovered the bomb on the floor, and ignored the comment, "Is that an explosive? What the hell are you two doing? I swear, Freak, if this is some kind of game your playing Lestrade will—"_

_Sherlock cut her off in a flat tone, "It was the bomber. He was here. The explosive seems to be stable enough—so long as it isn't exposed to heat." He considered asking her if she'd done a perimeter of the building before entering it, but knowing her incompetence he realized she probably wouldn't have turned anything up of interest anyway._

_Sally's eyes widened, "You _met_ him here without informing the police? And now you've let him get away I suppose?" John watched her face twist into a sneer, "Are you mad? Or just stupid?"Not waiting for an answer she turned her back to the men and gave her head a rigorous shake in disbelief. Turning back to face them she spoke in a highly agitated tone, "Well, we'd better vacate the building if there's a bloody bomb, then, shouldn't we?"_

_The three made their way to the exit, the two men in front, and Sally bringing up the rear. Sherlock looked back to Sally, "How did you know to find us here?" _

_Sally couldn't resist another shot at Sherlock—especially since finding out that Sherlock may have possibly spoiled their chances of finding the mad bomber—"Well, certainly not because anyone missed _you_. Good thing people like your partner. John's girl came to the police—"_

"_God… Sarah… is Sarah alright?" John remembered in a flash where he was _supposed_ to have been that night._

_Sally's usual harsh and sarcastic expression softened slightly, "Yeah, she's fine. Just worried about you. You aren't one to skip out on a date without calling. When she couldn't get a hold of you, she looked on your blog to see if maybe you'd made other plans, or if a case'd come up. Eventually she found her way to Sherlock's website." She turned her gaze on Sherlock again, and the softness practically evaporated, "It says that you would be at "the pool" at midnight. Lestrade had a feeling you were doing something stupid—turns out he was right—so the police have been searching every bloody pool in all of bloody London lookin' for you two."The group turned into a short hall that ended in a double heavy metal door._

_Sherlock reached the door first, and giving it a shove to open it, he strolled through, "So sorry, Sally. I wouldn't have pursued a dangerous criminal had I known it would get in the way of your and Anderson's romantic evening. I'm sure they're few and far between considering the near constant presence of his wife."_

_She scowled at him as she caught the heavy door, preventing it from swinging shut in her face, "Funny how you can recognize the signs of a romantic evening on a woman when I'm sure you've never had either one—a romantic evening _or_ a woman." She walked into the outside night air and held the door open to allow John to pass through. She smiled, "Oh, and I'm going to have to confiscate that gun. Lestrade _might_ even let me charge you for illegal possession of a pistol." She held out her free hand._

_Sherlock frowned, but handed over the firearm in hopes that cooperation now would buy him a faster questioning process later on. He doubted it._

_Sally turned away from the men, murmuring into her radio. She was reporting the presence of the explosive, and requesting the appropriate support. _

_As she walked away from the pair to make her call, Sherlock approached John conspiratorially, "When he spoke to you through the ear-piece… how did he sound?"_

_John narrowed his eyes, not sure what his companion was driving at, "What?"_

"_Moriarty's voice! Describe his voice," Sherlock demanded in an impatient whisper._

_John had a feeling that this was part of what was distracting him earlier, "Er… well you heard him. Strange, muddled, kind of Irish accent… fluctuating tone and volume…" John shrugged, at a loss for what else to say. _

_Sherlock's brow furrowed, and he pressed his lips together, "Not 'soft'?"_

_John didn't think he would describe Moriarty's voice as such, "No, that's not a word I would use... Why?"_

_Sherlock took in a deep breath and his mouth twisted in frustration. He half glanced around him, half rolled his eyes. Realizing that there would be nothing more here for him to discover, he let out his breath in a disgusted sound, and strode away with long, determined steps._

"_Hey!" Sally called after him, lowering the radio from her mouth, "Where do you think you're going?" _

"_I'm certainly _not_ going to stay here and waste my time here answering your questions about the obvious when I can be discovering the ambiguous." It wasn't long before Sherlock was out of sight having disappeared in the darkness of the parking lot in which they found themselves._

_Sergeant Donovan grimaced and shook her head, "Uggh… know what? Lestrade's the one who lets him run around doin' whatever he wants, let _Lestrade_ deal with it." She gave John a look up and down, "You go on too if you want. Looks like we'll have to be going to Baker Street anyway. Besides, your girlfriend will be wantin' to know you're okay."_

_John nodded and gave a quick "thanks". He was anxious to catch up to Sherlock and ask him what Moriarty's voice had to do with anything._

_By the time John Watson had made his way to the street, however, his crime-solving partner was long gone, and his question was never answered. _

* * *

"I'm not going to answer that… should be obvious."

"Well… yes, I suppose it is. It wasn't _really_ the question I was trying to ask though," John sighed. "When I asked "Are you wearing my jumper?" what I meant was, "_Why_ are you wearing my jumper?""

Sherlock paused, "Yes… that would be a more suitable question. Much less obvious. At least to _you_."

John gave the type of grin that Sherlock—contrary to logic—had found to mean that he was _un_happy, "Yes, and, the answer to my question?"

Sherlock was shuffling through the contents of the desk drawer, "I need to remain inconspicuous today. Your dress is much more… average. Besides, the jumper matches better with the persona that I'm trying to portray—the one of a very nice, honest, somewhat simplistic man."

John cocked his head to the side and closed his eyes a quick moment. When he opened them again he responded, "Wonderful." John heard the whistle of the kettle, and as he turned to the kitchen to make his tea, he spoke over his shoulder, "Still trying to find out more about Adler's connection to Moriarty?"

"No… I'll leave that particular interview until I can get her alone. Today I'm going to find out specifically _where_ on her person she keeps the memory stick, and retrieve it if possible," Sherlock pulled a memory stick of his own from the drawer and stuck it in his pocket.

John stopped mid-pour as he got a mental image of how sociopath-Sherlock would go about finding the memory stick _on her person_. His brows descended, and he asked cautiously, "_How_ are you planning on doing that, exactly?"

Sherlock sighed laboriously and stood from his kneeling position on the floor, "I _know _not to go up to a woman and begin to search her, John. In fact, being an attractive woman as she is, she has many such advantages that would make a direct confrontation… problematic." Sherlock threw himself backwards landing in a comfortable position on the sofa, "People are overly sensitive these days."

John had a feeling that Sherlock had learned about people's sensitivity by first-hand trial and error, and chose not to comment on it. John looked up from dunking his sugar-filled spoon into the steaming liquid and asked in a surprised tone, "'Attractive woman'?"

Sherlock frowned, somewhat perplexed, wondering if he'd appraised the woman incorrectly… perhaps she wasn't as attractive to men as he'd supposed. Remembering that John had more than likely seen a photograph or two of her when he was on her computer, he asked, "You don't think she is?"

John gave an amused snort as if Sherlock had asked him a very stupid question, "Um, yeah, of course _I_ think so. But I've never _once_ heard you comment on the attractiveness of a woman." John gave a shrug as he walked from the kitchen carrying his mug, "Or of a man for that matter."

Sherlock was quick to defend himself from the unspoken accusation, "I didn't say_ I_ was attracted to her. I was simply suggesting that others must find her attractive. This particular situation calls for attention to such details. For logistical purposes."

John raised his tea to his lips, "Ah, yes. Logistics." Sherlock could swear he saw a smirk hiding behind the mug of tea. "Speaking of logistics, how are you planning on figuring out where she keeps the memory stick?"

"Well, she's going to show me, of course," Sherlock stated as if he were telling John that "B" came after "A" in the alphabet.

"Oh right. Why didn't I think of that? Just ask her where she hides it—of course," John mumbled sarcastically as he sat in his comfortable armchair. He set down his tea in order to pick up the morning paper. As he read the front page, his breath caught in his throat, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock glanced at the clock—there was still time before he could set his plan into motion. He made a brief reflection on how incredibly _boring_ it was to wait, before he responded to John's exclamation, "Yes. That caught my eye as well."

John's eyes ran over the head line a good three times before he made any further comment: _Clay at the Museum—Former notorious bank robber, John Clay, turns his sights on the British Museum, stealing several very valuable artefacts, and yet again vanishing into thin air._

John's brow furrowed, "Irene Adler works at the British Museum. Do you think there's a connection?"

Sherlock nodded, "Undoubtedly. John Clay is one of the most successful thieves in London today. However, a museum burglary does not fit his usual pattern of bank robberies. Obviously he was hired by Ormstein to retrieve the video file. When he failed to find it, Ormstein must have refused to pay him. It follows that Clay, wanting to make the time spent on this job worth his while, turned his attention from Adler to the museum itself."

John nodded, "Makes sense. There's just one thing I don't understand…" Sherlock looked at his flatmate, waiting for what he might say. "How come _you've_ never caught John Clay? He's a very clever, devious sort of criminal. I should think that would have been right up your street."

Sherlock gave a casual shrug, "I was living in the United States at the time of the initial Clay bank robberies." John remembered that Sherlock had mentioned, on one of their first meetings, working on a case that resulted on Mrs. Hudson's late husband's execution in Florida. He wondered if that was the period of his life that Sherlock referred to. Sherlock continued his commentary on John Clay, "Besides, if one is to judge him on this particular crime, he's not all that clever. The security camera footage is conclusive evidence against him. Open and shut case—dull. The only thing left to be done is to apprehend him."

John didn't look up from the paper, "Well that seems to be the part the police are having the most difficult time with…" He sighed and folded the paper, placing it aside, "They're certainly feeling pressure from the public. There's nothing that they'd want more right now than to catch this guy." John gave Sherlock a look.

Sherlock glanced at the clock again—pointedly ignoring John's hidden suggestion that they should get involved, "Yes, the police are certainly slaves to public opinion."

John stood, somewhat frustrated with Sherlock's tendency of only helping when it suited him, despite his extraordinary abilities, "Well, I'm off. And _don't_ text me today unless you need serious medical attention." John fixed Sherlock with a look as he shrugged on his black jacket.

Sherlock waved him off, "Yes, fine."

John opened the door and called over his shoulder, "And do try to bring my jumper back to me in one piece."

As Sherlock listened to the sound of the door shut, and the patter of John's steps on the stairs, he decided that John was concerned unnecessarily for the well-being of his jumper—after all, he was simply going to a museum to speak to a woman. What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

Sherlock strolled through the main entrance of the British Museum. They key to getting to where you weren't supposed to be was to walk in confidently as if you were most certainly meant to be there. People generally had a tendency to believe that they were missing information, rather than believe that the nice, confident young man had blatantly lied to them with a smile on his face. People generally didn't like to believe others could be so deceitful. Admitting that someone else could be so expert at lying would remind them of the small lies they played out day to day. It would remind them of their own false faces that they prepared each morning so that society might approve of them.

Sherlock didn't wear such a mask—he didn't pretend to care when he truly didn't and didn't pretend to not care about something that he found delightfully interesting—and for this reason society would never truly accept him. He would always be the outsider, the Freak. As Sherlock glanced casually about him, at all the tourists on holiday and the children on school trips, all completely blind to the truths he saw all around everyday, all suppressing their own darkly hidden secrets, he decided that he wouldn't trade places with them for the world. If that meant being a "freak", so be it.

In his (not so humble) opinion, he believed that the one reason one should wish to pretend to be what one was not was to extract information. And so, for this reason, he would join the vast majority of the population in playing a part.

He approached the front desk where a young blonde sat. Sherlock noticed from her chewed pens, and her short nails—_uneven, must have been bit off, not cut with scissors_—that she had a very nervous nature. She might possibly even have an anxiety disorder. "Hello there!" Sherlock smiled cheerfully. "Uhh, I'm Robbie Hart… I was just hired on as a new tech. I'm supposed to do my training today."

The blonde smiled back shyly, "Uhh, sure. I'll just ring up Mr. Booth for you. Won't be a moment." She reached for her phone and dialled a quick extension number. "Hello, this is just Ashley. Is Henry expecting a new trainee today? His name is, um… Robbie…" she turned her eyes on Sherlock questioningly. "Sorry…"

"Hart," Sherlock supplied. _Poor short-term memory._

"Hart," Ashley repeated. "Well can I talk to him? Oh… I see," there was a brief pause when Ashley simply listened. "Well I dunno. Maybe management hired him," Ashley paused again. "All I know is that he's here for training," she shot Sherlock a small, apologetic smile. "Okay," Ashley hung up the phone slowly. Turning back to Sherlock she gave a shrug and giggled nervously, "Um, I think somebody forgot to e-mail Henry Booth about you. Sorry. He's actually unavailable right now… but if you want to wander around, check out the exhibits—the ones that haven't been closed by the police, that is—then feel free. He should be finished in an hour or so."

Sherlock smiled gratefully, "Thanks. Maybe I will."

Sherlock began to turn away when Ashley asked another question, "Who was it that hired you anyway?"

Sherlock blinked a few times, then his brow descended in concentration, "It was something like… oh, it's on the tip of my tongue!" He began to search his pockets, "Actually, I think I wrote the name down somewhere…" Sherlock busied himself by shuffling around, and trying to look embarrassed. _Shouldn't take long for her to intervene; 3, 2, 1—_

"Could it have been Mr. Collins?"

Sherlock snapped his fingers in triumph, "Yes! That was him!" He wiped his brow and shook his head, "Sorry, I'm a little nervous. I can't believe I couldn't remember the name of the man who hired me."

Ashley gave him a broad, friendly smile, "No worries. I just recently started here too. On my first day, a customer made me so nervous, I vomited."

Sherlock widened his eyes appropriately in order to give the effect of surprise, "_On_ the customer?"

Ashley laughed, "No, no. I made it to the loo at least. A girl who works here found me there and she talked me down. I was able to march right back here, and finish my day."

"Hey, Ash, how's it going?" Sherlock heard the voice originate from behind him, and he straightened slightly. _Female, American-accented—Adler._

He turned slowly to meet the eyes of the woman who was approaching her friend at the desk. She gave him a warm smile of greeting, and he responded with a smile and a nod. Ashley gave Irene a grin, "Well, well. Speak of the devil."

"Hey, hey, now. I can't be the devil," Irene held up her right hand in protest—her left hand was carrying a cardboard box of a dozen doughnuts. She opened the box, offering a selection of pastries to Ashley.

Ashley chose one and replied jokingly, "Oh really? And why not?"

"Because, the devil is a man," Irene stated matter-of-factly.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and joined in, "And how would you know that?"

Irene gave a lopsided grin and met Sherlock's eyes, "I met him once." She held the box open to him, "Doughnut?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Not sure it's wise for a man to accept food from a woman who's been in contact with the devil."

Irene gave an appreciative laugh as her eyes twinkled, "What's the matter Adam, afraid of falling from grace?"

Sherlock grinned—he wasn't sure whether Irene Adler was the devil Ormstein claimed (and the envelope suggested), or the angel everyone else (including John) seemed to see. In fact, he'd never given much thought to such theological classifications of people—only legal classifications were significant to him. All he knew was that, for now, she was an interesting puzzle with a not-so-obvious solution.

By the end of today, he decided, the puzzle that is Irene Adler would be solved. He gave a convincing laugh, "Not at all—it's just that I don't generally eat when I'm working."


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry it took so long again! I'm beginning to have a difficult time with flow and sequencing... but I'm not going to start getting into all that.

Also, Peter Jones is another Conan Doyle character that I'm using. He's a policeman in _The Redheaded League_, although he's not a Detective Inspector in that story.

Thanks for reading, and thanks especially to those who take their time to leave comments and reviews! Enjoy!

Chapter 6 – Holmes is where the Hart is.

_John arrived at Sarah's door. Strangely he felt exhausted and energized simultaneously. He gave a light rap. He'd hardly removed his hand from the door before it opened. A warm yellow light poured from the open door, enshrouding him. He felt warmed by it—felt like the yellow light was dispelling the residual dark blue-tinted light that he'd carried with him from the pool-side. Framed by the welcoming light, stood Sarah. Her light brown hair was done up carelessly, and the messy bun hung low over her right shoulder. Her grey eyes were bright and shiny, and John at that moment would have sworn that she was the most beautiful woman in the world._

_John cracked a smile, "Sorry I'm a little late…"_

_Sarah practically lunged at him, her arms loosely encircling his neck, and planted her lips on his. John surrendered to it, gladly, though he couldn't shake the nagging sense that he'd forgotten to do something… or that he'd done something he shouldn't have._

_Finally breaking away she tipped her head into his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, "I called the police—"_

"_I know."_

"_I was worried sick about you."_

_John, likewise, rested his chin on her shoulder, "Well—we're both doctors. I'm sure we can figure out some kind of remedy for that."_

_She pulled back to give him an unconvincing grin, "What happened?" She moved aside, allowing him to enter. _

_John fell silent, not really knowing how to answer. He sat heavily on the sofa, but felt no more relaxed, "We met the bomber… Moriarty. He's… dangerous."_

_Sarah sat down beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder, "What was he after?"_

_John met her eyes to discover that, though Sarah was concerned, she didn't _really_ understand how dangerous Moriarty was... She didn't understand that he wasn't just another criminal. When Sarah pictured "dangerous" she would forever have the Chinese gangster episode flash in her mind. Of course they were dangerous in their own right, but somehow John had always known that Sherlock would come. Sherlock would outsmart the "bad guys", Sherlock would save the day. _

_When John thought of Moriarty, he couldn't seem to get passed a chilling _doubt_. _

_He felt warmth on his face—he realized that Sarah's hand was cupping his cheek._

"_John… what's wrong?" Her eyes searched his face for the answer._

_He shook his head, "Nothing. It's just that we let him get away."_

_Sarah shrugged, "That happens. You're only human John."_

_John nodded. The pair fell silent for a few moments._

"_Did… did you want to stay over tonight?" Sarah looked up at him unsure._

_John grinned, "Sure. I'd like that. This time I get the end of your bed, right?"_

_Sarah's mouth opened and a smile crept over her features, "No... I _think_ it's 'the time after that'."_

* * *

Irene stuck out her hand, "Hi, I'm Irene." _Black turtleneck, vest, grey slacks, flat shoes. Functional, but appropriate work attire._ _Total of 23 possible places she could be hiding the flash drive._

Sherlock grinned politely and made the appropriate response, "Robbie— the new IT guy. Nice to meet you." He took her small hand in his—he noticed several tiny discoloured marks dispersed over the surface area of her hand. _Burn scars—each a result of a separate occurrence, all accidental. All from several years ago—they're barely visible. Food-service industry?_

Her dark blue eyes sparkled, "You too." Without further notice of him however she turned to Ashley, "Hey, do you mind printing off the schedule for the North American Indigenous Cultures Tour today?" She spoke casually as she rummaged through the box of doughnuts, apparently trying to select one for herself. Settling on one she took a generous bite.

Ashley frowned, "Well I e-mailed it to you…"

Irene nodded as she chewed. She replied evasively through a mouthful of pastry, "Yes, I know, but I need a hard copy."

Ashley gave her a knowing look, "And pray tell, why is that?"

The woman swallowed and gave an exasperated sigh, "Okay. My computer has been on the fritz again since yesterday, so I brought in my personal laptop, but _that_ won't connect to the Museum network for reasons beyond my understanding. Basically I hate technology. Are you happy?" Irene's tone was light, trying to pass it off as a joke. Sherlock saw beneath the façade, however—_slight increase of blood flow to the cheeks, tensed in the shoulders; Irene Adler does _not_ like not being good at something._

Sherlock marvelled for a moment at his great luck at stumbling into this situation. His intricate plan to re-encounter the woman in order to collect the information he required would no longer be needed. The opportunity, unless he was very much mistaken, would shortly fall into his lap. All he had to do was wait.

Ashley gave a laugh, "Sorry Irene… but I just don't understand how you can speak so many languages, remember all that history of the world, be all science-y about people, and yet muck up every piece of advanced, user-friendly piece of technology you touch."

"First of all, "science-y" is not a word. Secondly, are you going to print it out for me or not?" Irene asked evenly.

Ashley glanced at Sherlock, "Well, Robbie's in IT—he'll know how to fix your problem."

_That's_ what Sherlock had been waiting for, "Yes, certainly—I'd be very happy to take a look."

Irene shook her head, "No, no… I wouldn't want to put you out."

Sherlock waved his hand, "No trouble at all—I assure you."

* * *

John had just helped an elderly woman navigate her way out of his office and was about to buzz the intercom for the next patient when he heard he heard the ringing of his mobile. He heaved a long-suffering sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He picked up the phone and answered it in a tone not completely absent of irritation, "Oh, very funny—I told you not to text me, so you decided to _call_ me instead."

"Uhh… John? Is this a bad time… because I can call back."

John began to feel that creeping sensation of mortifying embarrassment in the pit of his stomach, "Oh, Detective… Inspector… no, no. Not a bad time at all. I, uh," John winced, "thought you were Sherlock."

Lestrade laughed, "Say no more. Actually, Sherlock is the reason why I'm calling."

John's brow furrowed, "He didn't get arrested did he?"

"No, nothing like that. Detective Inspector Jones is investigating the John Clay case… I'm sure you've heard—the burglary of the British Museum."

"Yes, I read that in the paper this morning. Any luck?"

"No. Clay's completely disappeared, and Jones says that the only lead we have is the get-away vehicle he abandoned aways from the museum. I told him that I would try and convince Sherlock to help him out. But Sherlock's not answering my calls. I was thinking you might try. It's _really_ important that we catch this guy."

John shrugged, though it couldn't be seen over the phone, "Sure, I'll definitely try… but you know Sherlock."

"Oh, trust me, no one will hold it against you if you can't convince him. But if anyone has a chance of influencing him, it'd be you… That being said I certainly hope you start helping him with his investigations again. I've gotten used to you being the buffer between him and my officers," Lestrade gave the compliment dressed in levity.

John stopped and tried to make sense of what the inspector had just said. He responded slowly, "Well, the next time Sherlock takes a case, I'll certainly be sure to be there."

"Well, if you need time, you need time. After what you went through… I just wanted to let you know that last week when Sherlock found us that bomber, we missed you."

John's eyes narrowed, "Sorry…'the bomber'?"

"I know, I know, it's not Moriarty _himself_—but the explosives expert that actually strapped the bombs to the hosta—er," Lestrade cleared his throat. John figured that it had just occurred to him that the subject of hostages rigged to explode might still be a sensitive subject for John, "Anyway, catching him was a step in the right direction."

John fell into his chair with a grim expression as realization set in. He took a breath, "Yes, well, I am feeling better now."

"Good, good. Well, I'll let you get back to whatever it is you were doing. Cheers."

Still a little stunned, John hung up and placed his phone on his desk. It didn't make sense… Sherlock hadn't left Baker Street for weeks before the Adler case… when did he find time to track down any criminal, let alone one under the employ of Moriarty?

John frowned as he remembered a bit of Sherlock's own advice— _"Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth."_

Sherlock had been taking cases without him. Not only that, but he had been hiding it.

* * *

Sherlock fell into stride beside the petite woman, who, for someone so short, could certainly keep a fast pace. They walked through the bright white interior of the circular Great Court, "So, what do you do for the museum?" he asked in a casual manner.

She brushed her pixie-cut hair from her eyes, "Well, in a nutshell, I'm a cultural anthropologist. The museum hired me to give tours and do workshops on different cultures of the world… mostly on the indigenous people of North America." Irene didn't give him a chance to further his enquiry, "How did you get into computers?"

Sherlock shrugged, "It seemed practical."

Irene nodded, "It is." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, "It's a dependable line of work."

Sherlock grinned, by "dependable" he was sure she meant "predictable", and by "predictable" he was sure she meant "boring".

"I like a quiet life," he lied. Quickly he added, "But your line of work must be interesting… exciting, even."

Irene agreed with the comment with a lopsided, impish smile and a tip of her head, "It has its moments." Her brow drew together as she caught sight of something, and Sherlock followed her eyes to where she looked. _A man. Approximately 60 years old… Security guard by the look of his uniform. He had an air of authority about him. _He looked distraught—_Not surprising with the recent burglary. Everyone must be trying to put the blame on someone. He must have had some kind of responsibility for the museum that night._

She gave Holmes an apologetic look and gestured to the man, "Sorry, but do you mind if I—?"

Sherlock looked sincere, "Not at all, please do."

She gave a grateful nod, and jogged over to the man, opening her box and offering him one. He accepted, and tried to look happy about it. Irene rested her hand on his upper arm, and said something supportive—though he couldn't tell the exact words because her back was facing him. Whatever she did say, however, seemed to alleviate some of the man's stress. He took on a relatively more cheerful demeanour and continued on his way. As Irene returned—a little more sombre than before—Sherlock realized that Irene Adler represented a great paradox: based on the state of her living space, she seemed to be relatively alone—not only in London, but in the world. She didn't seem to have close family; she didn't have a boyfriend (or girlfriend for that matter); she didn't seem to keep in touch with any friends she might have made over the years. Yet, by the looks of her social interactions, one would think she made close friends easily.

The woman rejoined Sherlock, taking another doughnut from the box. She munched on it as they continued to the _Center for Anthropology_.

"Friend of yours?" Sherlock asked.

Irene nodded, "Frank? Yeah. He's a good guy."

"He's a security guard, isn't he? He must be under a lot of pressure right now. Because of… Well, because of what happened."

Irene pursed her lips as they passed into a display room. The room was relatively small with hardwood floors. In general it gave a warmer, more intimate feel compared to the giant, white Great Court. They passed a few patrons standing around an impassive-looking stone Easter Island statue. "It wasn't his fault," Irene sounded bitter. "It was mine."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, "How could it have possibly been your fault?"

Irene cast him a look, "I was mugged on my way home from work last week. The guy took my purse—he got my pass key. It's how he was able to clear security long enough to get into the building undetected. It also meant he had specific access to the Stonyhurst collection."

"Sorry, which collection?"

"A collection of native American artefacts. It was loaned to the British Museum by Stonyhurst College in '77, and relatively recently the college permanently donated it to the museum."

"That was generous of them."

Irene turned towards a passageway that led to the next display room, replying cynically, "Well, it's easy to be generous with things that aren't yours, I suppose."

Sherlock frowned as he followed her lead, "What do you mean?"

Irene shook her head and shrugged, "Just that… the rightful ownership of some of the artefacts has recently fallen into question. But all that's besides the point if that idiot gets away with selling them to private collectors."

Sherlock looked sympathetic, "I don't see that there was anything you could have done to prevent it…" _except maybe by _not_ blackmailing your former employer with a recording of him having sex._

Irene fell silent, and Sherlock would gamble that her thoughts ran a similar course to his own.

Remembering that John would also try and console someone in this situation, he added, "I'm sure the police will find John Clay."

The introspective look on the woman's face passed, and it regained its girlish charm, "No chance that you're a technologist _and_ some kinda super detective, huh? That'd really solve all my problems."

Sherlock felt the first unforced smile spread over his face since he'd entered the museum, "Wouldn't _that_ be something…"

His smile dissipated as he looked ahead to see the next room blocked off with yellow tape. They were walking towards the crime scene. He froze on the spot, and immediately became hyper-aware of his surroundings. _There are voices of two policemen in the next room… one of them definitely D.I. Peter Jones. I solved one of his cases for him last year. He would recognize me instantly. _Sherlock snuck a glance at the woman, _He would certainly expose my true identity… Irene Adler would recognize my name. Her suspicion would be aroused._ From there, it would be obvious that he would get no information from her on Moriarty, and he may not even be able to reclaim Ormstein's property. _That would be… embarrassing_.

Irene, sensing that she was no longer being followed stopped and turned, "Well, Robbie, are you coming?"

It would seem that Sherlock's good luck had run out.


	7. Chapter 7

Okay, this time I swore I was going to be earlier in uploading, and I was doing really well until I caught the flu. So, valid excuse this time?... Anyways, this chapter is really long, but I really wanted everything in this chapter that is in it, so there was no way around it. Sorry to the people who hate long chapters.

Alright, so, among the list of story elements, characters, tones and themes that I'm sort of... using... that happen to be not something I created (well, it is a _fan_fiction after all), I have to add something to the list that I straight-up copied. The lyrics to the song that Irene sings are NOT mine, and all rights to them belong to the wonderful, amazing English band known as Jethro Tull. They're from a song called _Teacher_, written and sung by the very talented Mr. Ian Anderson (don't judge him by his name Sherlock fans, he is nothing like Anderson in the show). I suggest you guys check this Jethro Tull song out, and others! They have a really awesome, unique sound.

Finally, thank you very much to the people who read this story! Thanks, especially, to people who take the time to drop a line on what they think about it. You guys are awesome.

* * *

A Scandal in Olduvai

_He was kissing his girlfriend. Certainly, tonight, it would lead to more… but what was wrong with that? He liked her, he respected her. They were both adults. There was no reason for John to feel guilty._

_Then why did he? There must be something wrong. John gently pulled away from Sarah, "A-are you sure you want to? Tonight, I mean?"_

_Sarah laughed, "Don't _you_ want to? You've been dropping enough hints lately."_

_John nodded enthusiastically, "Of course… I just want to make sure _you_ wanted to."_

"_Well, I do."_

_John smiled, feeling silly for making a big deal out of nothing, "As long as it's alright with you."John leaned in to kiss her._

_Sarah smiled, "Well, aren't you sweet…"_

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around."

_John jerked backwards at the triggered memory, and stood abruptly. His hand passed over his eyes. He took a deep breath, realizing, finally, what it was about this situation that bothered him. He turned to face Sarah. It took great strength of will to meet her eyes and hold them, "I can't see you anymore."_

_

* * *

_

Irene looked at him expectantly, brow uplifted.

Sherlock quickly considered his options, painfully aware that every unexplained second he remained halted the young woman's suspicion increased tenfold. He was just about to play-out one of his more convincing stomach flu acts and rush to the toilet, when he noticed loud, clunking footsteps racing up from behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder, and felt relieved to see out of the corner of his eye that Irene had also shifted her gaze.

It was a man—a very short, stout man wearing glasses with exceptionally thick lenses. Obviously, he was not accustomed to this kind of physical activity, and his chest was heaving with the effort of the sprint. Sherlock was certain with a quick glance at the man's appearance that he was a member of the IT department. He even thought it was likely that this was Mr. Henry Booth himself.

"Mr. Hart!" The voice was as loud and booming as it was out of breath, "Mr. Hart!"

Slowing to a stop beside Sherlock he leaned forward to plant his palms on his knees, gulping at the air.

Irene gave the man a sympathetic smile, trying not to look amused at his expense, "Hey Henry."

Sherlock studied the man as he straightened, trying to maintain a level of dignity in front of his new recruit. He nodded in Sherlock's direction, "Robbie Hart?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly, "Yes sir." He stuck out his hand in an eager-to-please fashion, "Am I to presume that you are Mr. Booth?"

The middle-aged man nodded and accepted Sherlock's hand in a firm handshake, "That's me, m'boy! Glad to see Collins finally took my request for a new tech seriously." He gave Irene a disappointed look, "This has got to be record time for you."

Irene looked offended, "He _volunteered_!"

Sherlock nodded, "It's true… I insisted, even."

Henry shook his head and waved away both comments, "Only 'cause the poor boy don't know no better!" He turned to face the direction from which he came, indicating Sherlock to follow, "Come on, we'll train ye, then I'll tell you some stories about the Technological Terror over there… and then we'll see if you think you can stomach one of her problems on your first day."

Irene rolled her eyes, "A tad dramatic, Henry."

Sherlock was relieved—on the one hand the up-coming training session would surely be the longest, most boring period of his life, _but_ it would save him from encountering DI Jones with Irene Adler at his side.

Sherlock gave Irene an apologetic smile, "I _will_ come back to fix your problem."

Irene's eyes seemed to laugh at his 'heart-felt' assurance, "Okay, Robbie. Good luck with your training. My office is just through here, and off to the left."

Irene turned from the men, continuing on her way to the crime scene. Sherlock easily caught up with Henry Booth.

Sherlock could hear, even from his increasing distance, Irene greet the officers warmly as she crossed the boundary of the crime scene, "Hey Peter! Doughnut?"

Sherlock had only met DI Peter Jones briefly, but none-the-less knew everything about him worth knowing. He was a gruff sort of man—ragged around the edges. He sorely lacked imagination as well as a moderate ability to use logic. Compared to Jones, Lestrade looked like a genius—and _that_ certainly said something.

His one redeeming quality—if one _could_ be redeemed from such an unflattering description—was that he never gave up. He had unfaltering persistence—if he happened upon a criminal, he would never let go of him, and if he didn't have the criminal in his grasp, he would track said criminal to the ends of the earth. That did little good, however, if one didn't know in which direction the 'ends of the earth' could be found.

Sherlock distantly heard Jones' response, "Bless you love! I think I will…" The detective continued in a sly sort of tone, "How is it that such a fine young woman doesn't have a man in her life?"

Sherlock could here the smile in Irene's voice, "Oh I don't suffer from lack of men in my life, Inspector—right now I'm trying to juggle a good five or six at the same time. It's exhausting."

The comment was met with Jones' hearty, throaty, laughter… but Sherlock had already covered too much distance to hear the rest of the conversation that followed.

* * *

Sherlock was using less than an approximate sixteenth of his brain power to listen to, or rather pretend to listen to, Mr. Henry Booth explain the ethical responsibilities of IT professionals. Sitting in front of the computer monitor displaying the accompanying slide presentation, Sherlock smiled and nodded periodically—just for good measure.

With the remainder of his cognitive abilities, meanwhile, he sifted through the information he'd already collected about the ambiguous Ms. Irene Adler.

_Although clever in other respects, not very good with technology… yet Ormstein is convinced that she managed to get through the security on his computer._ Is that where Moriarty came in? Was he the one who facilitated the hacking of Wilhelm Ormstein's computer? Sherlock was convinced of the probability of that scenario.

What was truly troubling him was the woman's motivations for orchestrating this whole affair—getting involved with an obviously dangerous man like Moriarty, in order to blackmail a Czech politician who, if not equally dangerous as the former, was powerful and well-connected in his own circles. She was intelligent enough to realize the risk she was taking. She certainly did not seem the type to rush into such a situation without balancing the costs and benefits of going through with it. But even these inconsistencies could be forgiven if she seemed at all the spiteful and vindictive misandrist he'd expected to find. And though he was sure she didn't feel any great love for Ormstein, nothing she'd said or done lead him to believe that Irene Adler would get much gratification out of ruining a man's life in this way. She seemed somehow… _above_ that.

While Sherlock was slowly gathering answers to the 'how' questions, the 'why' questions continued to be tauntingly out of reach.

"Still with me Robbie?"

Sherlock smiled at Henry, "Yes, it's perfectly clear."

Henry gave him a grin and slapped his thighs, "Excellent! Well… I think that just about covers everything. Off ye go. When you're done fixing Irene's problem I'll give you a list of other tasks you can start on, yeah?"

Sherlock stood eagerly, "Great."

Sherlock began to turn when his attention was called for one last time, "Er… Robbie, one more thing: Irene is certainly a beautiful girl… but…" Henry ran his hand over his head, "Whatever it is that ye want from her, ye won't get it. Trust me—many a man has tried and failed in the three months she's been here. She's just not interested."

Sherlock blinked innocently, "I don't want anything from her."

Henry gave an unconvinced nod, "Right then. Just a fair warning, mate."

* * *

Sherlock approached the door to Irene's office. He brought his hand up to knock, when the sound from the other side of the door made him pause.

Adler was singing. Her voice was high, clear, and perfectly pitched. For such a small woman, she certainly had a big voice that could fill a room. As an appreciator of fine music, and as a musician himself, he found himself…_impressed_. He didn't recognize he song—not that he expected to. Last night he had researched some of the band and album titles he'd noticed in Irene's flat. John had remarked that she seemed to like "the classics". Sherlock had responded that while he was fond of classical music, none of the artists were familiar to _him_. This earned him a look from John that Sherlock understood to mean that he had deleted useless information that popular culture deemed of great importance.

John had scanned the list of band titles only reading what Sherlock thought must be the most popular in a very long list, "You've never heard of Led Zeppelin… AC/DC, Jethro Tull… Pink Floyd, Janis Joplin, Queen, Heart… _The Beatles_. You've never heard of The Beatles. Are you joking?"

When Sherlock did his own research in the subject, he found that Irene Adler kept mostly to the music genre known as _classic rock_. From the sample he'd chosen to listen to, he had decided that it wasn't to his taste.

"…_And I have a lesson,_

_That I must impart to you._

_It's an old expression,_

_But I must insist it's true._

_Jump up, look around,_

_Find yourself some fun._

_No sense in sitting there, hating everyone._

_No man's an island, and his castle isn't home._

_The nest is full of nothing, when the bird has flown."_

Sherlock was still paused in front of Irene's door, still holding his hand up to the door as if to knock, but inexplicably compelled to wait until the woman had finished her song. _When investigating it is important to take note of _everything_ after all_, Sherlock justified. It was impossible to tell at this juncture what may turn out to be useful information. He prided himself on noticing even the most gruesome details—cataloguing details more _pleasant _to the senses should pose no more or less difficulty.

"_So I took a journey,_

_Threw my world into the sea._

_With me went the teacher,_

_Who found fun instead of me._

_I try to socialize, but I can't seem to find,_

_What I was looking for—got something on my mind."_

Sherlock cleared his throat and knocked gently on the door. He reflected that perhaps his judgment of the entire genre had been a little hasty.

"Come in!" Irene called through the door.

Sherlock opened the door to reveal her small work-space. Irene, seated at her desk, greeted him with a smile, "So, Henry didn't scare you away after all." She indicated a container of carrot sticks next to her, "Carrot?"

Sherlock politely refused, "No. Thank you."

His eyes ran around the small room. There was a simple desk upon which sat a desktop computer, a note pad, a cup of pens, and a laptop computer (evidently being used en lieu of the malfunctioning desktop). There was a short bookshelf containing reference material and notes. Every now and again he spotted a package or container of food, on her desk, in the shelves—he was certain more could be found in the drawers of the desk. This observation was hardly surprising—she hadn't stopped eating from their first meeting.

The woman stood, allowing him to sit at the desk.

Sherlock settled into the chair, "So what seems to be the trouble?"

Irene shrugged, "It just crashed out on me. Yesterday morning—I remember because I had to run home to grab my laptop."

Sherlock eyed the computer accusingly, and pushed the 'power' button, _So _you're_ to blame for my interrupted visit to Adler's flat_.

"Well, let's get started, shall we?"

Finally, Sherlock had the chance to accomplish what he had come here to— have her show him where she kept the flash drive. He reached out for the key board, his hand 'accidentally' knocking over the cup of pens, scattering them all over the floor. Sherlock looked embarrassed, "Oh! S-sorry…" he went to the floor, gathering the pens in one of his hands, while his other hand covertly made its way to his trouser pocket. He drew his hand out again, holding his own memory stick.

Irene shook her head, "Oh, Robbie, don't worry about it. Just leave 'em. I'll get to them later. This place is a mess anyway. Really."

"No, no. I might as well finish. I've almost collected them all," He nonchalantly planted the storage device near one of the legs of the desk, where he was certain Irene would be unable to see it.

Irene crouched beside him, "Well, if you're going to be stubborn, I might as well help."

Sherlock shook his head as he presented to her a cup with every pen back in place, "No need. I'm finished."

She accepted the cup with a grin, "Well thank you very much." She stood, placing it back upon the desk in its proper place.

Sherlock looked around, as if searching for stray pens, when his eye fell on the memory stick, "Oh…" He reached for it, making certain that his grip covered the distinctive handle portion, only presenting the drive itself. He stood, "Is this yours? Maybe it dropped from the desk when I knocked over the pens…?"

She responded beautifully—just as Sherlock expected. He might have spent the better half of his day running around the British Museum and learning the ethical responsibilities of working on other people's computers—not to mention taking great pains to act good-hearted and simple-minded all the while—but it was all worth it for this very moment.

No matter how clever the criminal fancies himself (or herself) to be, none could avoid the momentary panic when they think that someone else has control of the very thing that could ruin them. And Irene Adler _did_ panic—her eyes widened slightly, her mouth parted. Sherlock watched and waited. She would _have_ to show him. She would just _have _to check to make sure the memory stick wasn't missing… that it hadn't dropped from wherever she kept it.

Irene leaned forward, hand on her chest, as if to peer more closely at the mysterious object. Her panic seemed to disintegrate, "Umm, nope. I can't say that it's mine. Maybe ask around in IT—maybe one of the other guys left it here when I was last in need of assistance."

Sherlock's eyes fell to where she had placed her hand on her chest—_So, she wears it on a string around her neck. It would fall neatly where it would be disguised by her—_Sherlock broke off the thought. Suffice it to say that the memory stick would be disguised.

Irene followed his eyes, and her brow furrowed slightly in suspicion. Her hand dropped to her side.

Sherlock nodded, "I'll be sure to do that." He slipped the memory stick back into his pocket. He sat down at the computer, again settling into his task.

"Do you think you'll be alright to finish up here on your own? I have a tour to give in a few minutes, and I should really be getting there. Everything's backed-up, so you don't have to worry about losing anything." Irene was still studying him in an uneasy way.

Sherlock looked up from the monitor, "Oh yes, I should be fine." _Clever—doesn't want to be alone with me. I can't very well reach down her turtle neck in front of a crowd, can I? She knows she's given herself away—what she doesn't know is if Robbie Hart is aware of what she's shown him. Best bet is to continue playing the part until I have the chance of confronting her somewhere more remote_.

She smiled, as she rushed through the door, "Thanks again Robbie. I really owe you one."

* * *

Sherlock had just finished with Adler's computer—he had had to _wipe it clean_, there were so many viruses—and was strolling out of her office into the display-room-turned-crime-scene when he ran into the very _last _person in the entire museum he wished to see: Detective Inspector Peter Jones. The stocky man looked Sherlock up and down, as realization dawned on him. It only took Sherlock a split second to decide on how he was going to deal with Jones.

"Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! You were able to make it after all!" DI Jones greeted excitedly.

"Yes," Sherlock glanced around disdainfully. "This crime scene is in a state of disarray. Who's been walking through here?"

Jones opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock cut him off, "Never mind, I can plainly see that it's been you, your men, and one small woman… The crime scene has been completely contaminated."

Jones' brow furrowed in concentration, "How did you…? Yes, well, we had already photographed and catalogued everything of significance, so I didn't see any harm—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, " 'Everything of significance.' Ninety percent of the time the police miss the _most_ significant clues. And now you might as well have herded cows through here for all disturbances you've made." He gave a wave to indicate the display room.

Jones cleared his throat, trying to remind himself that he had _asked _this man to come here, "Well, uh, I am sorry. I would be grateful if you were to have a look anyhow… is there anything I can do?"

Sherlock looked around the room, "Actually, yes. There is one thing you can do."

Peter Jones leaned forward to better hear his instructions.

"You can get me a sodium chloride and dihydrogen monoxide solution."

DI Jones looked bewildered, "Well, where am I supposed to find _that_?"

"Detective Inspector, there would be very few places that you would be _unable _to find it in London—or at least the ingredients to make some. Try the museum restaurant."

Jones nodded, brow furrowed, "Sodium chloride and dihydrogen monoxide solution, eh? Well hang on, I'll go get it." Jones made his way hurriedly from the room—in the direction of the restaurant, Sherlock would imagine.

_Should keep him busy for a while. _At least long enough for Sherlock to find the woman again—to establish that she was actually still _in _the museum. Her schedule (the one on her e-mail account with the absurdly simple password—just because it was in another language didn't necessarily make it clever) had indicated that she _should_ be in Display Room 2, but if she was shaken enough, she could have easily gone home early.

He departed the crime scene. As he moved through the adjacent display room, his eye caught on a colourful floor plan hanging on the wall—meant to guide tourists to their desired destinations. He searched for Room 2, scanning the plan as his finger glided over the smooth plastic. It was all the way near the main entrance of the museum. He grinned as he discovered that there were a total of three entrances to Display Room 2: Display Room 1, the Paul Hamlyn Library, and the gift shop. Sherlock tapped the area on the map meant to represent the gift shop with finality. It would be crowded, and it looked into Display Room 2 at a good angle. He would be able to see her from there, if she was there to be seen.

When he reached the gift shop he was not disappointed. He could hear the distinct tone of the woman's voice carry clearly even from where he stood. He walked to the far end of the shop, under the pretense of examining a series of novelty refrigerator magnets, which just barely allowed him to see into the display room. There Adler was, standing in front of a group of twelve, indicating the display case next to her, "… not sure _which_ of our ancestors made the Olduvai chopping tool, but at 1.8 million years old, it is certainly the oldest evidence of human tool production in this museum, and, some would say, where our humanity began." She paused theatrically, looking down dubiously at the unimpressive lump of stone, "Not exactly the shiny red apple you guys pictured is it?" Her audience laughed. Sherlock's eye was caught by a thirteenth figure joining the group from another entrance. _What is Detective Inspector Jones doing _here_?_ Sherlock cursed the man mentally. He was _supposed_ to be in the museum restaurant trying to find 'sodium chloride and dihydride monoxide solution'.

The woman continued, "Louis Leakey recovered this tool in 1931, at the Olduvai Gorge in Africa. But it was wife, Mary Leakey, who was the one who gave it the classification of the "Oldowan Chopper". She theorized that our ancestors used it to butcher animals." Irene stopped, looking around at her audience, "What's the first thing that strikes _you _about it?"

Sherlock watched Jones. He seemed to be waiting to speak to the woman—but whatever it was he had to say didn't seem important enough to interrupt the presentation for.

One woman spoke up, "It… sort of looks like an axe."

Irene smiled and nodded, "It certainly does. Anything else?" She was met with silence.

Sherlock sighed, getting caught up in Irene's presentation despite himself. He didn't know a _thing_ about ancient tools or devices, but he could easily use his powers of observation to see that a large, clunky object like _that_ would be of little use to cut meat. It was the pieces of stone that had been chipped away that would have been important. Obvious.

Irene tried again, "Come on… where are all the hunters? Is this what _you_ would use to butcher an animal?"

A boy there with his father answered next, "No. That would be hard. I'd just use a knife."

The crowd laughed at the abrupt, confident tone of such a young child. Sherlock didn't feel the slightest bit inclined to laugh—the boy probably had the most sense of the lot of them.

Irene grinned broadly at him, "What's your name?"

The boy looked up at his father as if not sure whether to tell a stranger his name. In the end his father spoke for him, "His name is Charlie."

Irene regarded the boy with admiration, "You know, Charlie, you should be an anthropologist."

The boy, not really sure what she meant by 'anthropologist', but getting the sense that he was being complimented, looked at his feet, blushing bashfully.

Irene continued, "They didn't have knives two million years ago, but they did have something that looked like this." She presented a stone flake, and passed it to someone in the crowd, who looked at it, and subsequently passed it on. "Now, more recently, an archaeologist did an experiment. He tried to make his own Oldowan chopper, and use it. _But_, he ran into trouble. The chopper, he found, was almost useless when actually being used to cut meat. Like Charlie said—it was too hard. It was big, heavy, hard to handle, and not even that sharp. He also found, however, that the flakes of stone—like that one—that he chipped off the core in order to make the chopper, were _excellent_ for cutting meat. They had a thin, sharp, edge, and they were light and easy to use. So, though the chopper might have been used to do things like break open animal bones to get at the marrow, our ancestors' purpose in striking the flakes from the core was probably to produce _the flakes_, rather than to make the so-called 'chopper' itself. That means that what you see here, treated as one of the most revered objects in this entire museum, was probably more of a waste product two million years ago."

Sherlock observed the crowd's expression. They were impressed that someone had a thought that would have never occurred to them. Was it _really_ that difficult for people to see something so obvious?

"I start my tours here at this station for two reasons: first of all, it is the oldest man-made artefact that has been accepted by science so far, but also, it teaches us an important lesson. Often, we come in looking at something with certain preconceived notions—essentially, we see what we _expect_ to, or we see things in terms of our own experiences. That's completely natural—it only means we're human. No one's completely objective, and no one's completely infallible."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow—he would object to that. It _was_ possible to be completely objective if one took the time to empty the rubbish from one's brain.

"It's very easy to get distracted by the centre piece—like the chopper, and miss out on all the important details going on around it. Like the flakes." Irene shrugged and grinned, "So today, I want you all to think like anthropologists. Become aware of your biases, and open up your mind as I take you through one of the most complete collections of human culture in the world. Take some time to look around, and we'll move to the next room shortly."

The crowd dispersed to different corners of the room, all peering through the glass cases at the different objects kept there. All except for Jones, who, naturally, approached Irene, "That was a pretty speech you gave."

She smiled, "Thanks. Took me practically the entire three months I've been here to refine it. But I have a feeling that you didn't come here just to learn the scandalous truth on Oldowan Choppers."

Peter Jones laughed, "No, no. I was actually wondering if you happened to be by your office lately."

Irene shook her head, "Not for a while now. Why?"

"Did you happen to see a man in a jumper when you were there?"

Sherlock stiffened where he was—if Jones and Adler put together that Hart and Holmes were one in the same man, Sherlock's life would become a lot more complicated.

Irene chuckled, looking a little shocked, "A man… wearing a _jumper_? No… that would definitely stick in my mind."

Sherlock and Jones' brows both wrinkled in confusion at the woman's reaction. Then it clicked, for Sherlock at least, and his forehead smoothed. Americans called jumpers _"sweaters"_. The American _"jumper"_ on the other hand was a kind of dress. Fortunately, neither Jones nor Adler caught on to the misunderstanding.

Jones nodded, "I see. Oh well. I'll just have to track him down myself… he has to be around here somewhere." He turned to go, but stopped mid-stride, "You don't happen to know what a 'sodium chloride and dihydrogen monoxide solution' is, do you? I've asked the kitchen staff, but nobody's heard of the bloody stuff!"

Irene frowned as she repeated the name to herself. Suddenly, she looked up at the Detective Inspector, her face split in a grin, "Someone's been messing with you, Peter."

He frowned, "Why d'ya say that?"

Irene laughed, " 'Sodium chloride and dihydrogen monoxide solution' is just a needlessly long and confusing way to say 'salt water'."

Jones shook his head, exasperated, "I dunno what that arrogant bastard is playing at."

Irene raised an eyebrow, "You mean the man in the jumper?"

Jones sighed an affirmative.

"He certainly sounds like quite the character."

Caught up in Jones and Adler's conversation, Sherlock didn't notice he had company until the young man behind him announced his presence in a soft spoken voice, "Um, sir, do you need assistance finding anything?"

Sherlock turned to face what was hardly more than a boy, "No thank you. In fact, I'm finished here." He indicated the merchandise with a wave of his hand, "None of the magnets really appeal to me."

The boy nodded, and went in search for somewhere he could be of use.

Sherlock departed the gift shop. He knew now that Adler was still in the museum. All he had to do was wait for her to leave for home. Her homeward journey would be where he could get her alone, somewhere. Away from onlookers that would probably misunderstand the situation. He would ask her some questions concerning Moriarty, he would retrieve Ormstein's video, and that would be, as they say, that.

* * *

Sherlock bided his time discretely outside the main entrance of the museum. Irene Adler lived a sensible distance from the museum, making it probable that she would either take public transportation, or walk (a look at her shoes was enough evidence to convince him that walking home wasn't a rare occurrence for her). He was somewhat concealed from the point of view of people leaving the museum, and to the people entering it, he simply looked like he was waiting to meet someone.

He noticed he wasn't the only one. A man of about medium build, deathly pale and freckled, with a tuft of frizzy brown hair on his head _also_ seemed to be waiting for somebody—quite anxiously at that. He could hardly keep still.

Sherlock filed this information away, but didn't let it distract him from his task. He directed his gaze back to the entrance way.

He only waited another twenty minutes before his patience was rewarded. The woman walked out, juggling a laptop case, and a purse. Seeming to have little awareness of what was going on around her, trying to fiddle with a zippered pouch on the laptop case, she walked straight past Sherlock, none the wiser.

Sherlock waited for her to cover some distance before he began to trail, giving the woman a wide berth.

As he watched Irene, he was somewhat surprised, and very dismayed, to see the pale frizzy-haired man approach her. The man put his arm around her, guiding her in the direction of his choosing. Sherlock noticed Irene tense. She looked up at his face, seething with frustration. But, in the end, she didn't really seem to have a choice but to do as the man suggested.

_Another of Ormstein's agents,_ Sherlock thought, annoyed that he didn't realize it before now, that the man would get in the way of his carefully crafted plan, and most of all, that Ormstein had the audacity to hire someone _else_ after he had already hired _him_. He would definitely need to have a chat with Wilhelm Ormstein about a few things.

For now, Sherlock didn't seem to have much of a choice than to follow them. He didn't necessarily mind if the man reclaimed Ormstein's property—but Irene was currently his closest link to Moriarty at the moment—he didn't trust leaving that link in the hands of what looked like a dangerous criminal. He couldn't let her get killed without finding out what she knows.

He followed the odd pair for quite a distance before the crowds began to thin, and they found themselves in a much more isolated part of Camden, London. They then ducked into an alley way.

Sherlock quickened his pace to catch up to them. He halted just outside the alley, peeking around the corner to assess the situation. Approximately 5.4 meters away he observed the man clutching the arm of the small woman with his right hand, and pointing at her menacingly with his left. He had her backed up against the brick of the adjacent building. He was saying something in harsh, furious whispers… from Sherlock's distance he could barely catch the phrase "Where is it?"

Irene looked up at him calmly. Her voice was much softer, but Sherlock could read her lips, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm _not_ playing a game!" shrieked the man bringing his face within centimeters of Irene's. Irene turned her face away—not so much flinchingly, but more as if to save herself the discomfort of being within such a close proximity of him. His free hand went to his coat pocket, and he drew it out in a blur that glinted in the sunshine. He shoved the newly produced blade in her face.

She raised an eyebrow at the blade, and gave a sigh—as if she was negotiating with a child who was demanding sweets, "Okay, there's obviously some kind of miscommunication here…" Sherlock observed her free hand sliding slowly to her trouser pocket, "Let's talk about this rationally."

Sherlock's nose scrunched in annoyance— _That woman is going to get herself killed. Worse still, she's going to get herself killed _before_ I've determined her exact connection to Moriarty._ He took a moment to weigh his options. Finally deciding that he'd been forced to interfere, he bounded forward.

Both the woman and the man looked up—the man was startled, and… blank. As if it was taking a moment for the new situation to permeate through his skull. Adler was startled also, but her shock passed much more quickly. When it _had _passed, Sherlock expected to see signs of relief on her face. Instead, he noted a look of dismay.

Sherlock's first objective was to disarm the man. He leapt in between the pair, forcing the man backwards into the building opposite. He hit the man's left hand with considerable force against the wall—causing him to drop the blade, which hit the ground with a metallic _twang_.

The man pulled away from Sherlock's grip, and recovered his balance surprisingly quickly, taking on a defensive stance. He glared up at Sherlock with inky-dark eyes that truly expressed his fury at being interrupted, "This _doesn't_ concern you, _mate_."

Though at first the man didn't seem all that impressive, at a second glance the man's dark, intelligent eyes in stark contrast to his fair and freckled complexion gave him a truly sinister look. Sherlock noted that the man was obviously an experienced fighter—consistent scarring on the knuckles of his index and middle fingers and his wiry muscles told that much. Sherlock also noticed a distinct _lack_ of other residual marks of violence that a life of fighting usually left on a body. His opponent didn't often lose.

Well, as the man would soon find out, neither did Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock tried not to sound _too_ confident, "On the contrary—I'm of the belief that the experience of new immigrants is the responsibility of _all_ Londoners."

It wasn't at all surprising to Sherlock that the man didn't often lose—he _was_ left-handed, after all. That was a distinct advantage to have in a fist fight. Left-handed fighters generally led with their right side (southpaw position)—making them a mirror image of the much more common orthodox boxing position, in which the boxer led with his or her _left_. Because left-handed fighters had much more experience fighting right-handed fighters, what was an extremely awkward and backward situation for their adversaries was natural to the southpaw.

Sherlock suppressed a grin—as rare as southpaws _were_, rarer still were fighters who could use either position with an equal amount of dexterity. Sherlock just happened to be one of those fighters.

Sherlock circled to his left, as he was sure his opponent expected.

The dark-eyed man lunged forward and to his right, leading with his right fist—_blocked—_followed up with a powerful left hook—_dodged_.

Sherlock was in the midst of cutting right—hopefully catching his opponent off-guard by switching his fighting position—when there was an intrusion into his line of vision: Irene darted in front of him, towards her attacker, holding a small spray-bottle in her out-stretched hand. The man caught sight of her also, and he deflected her hand away easily—pushing her hand in Sherlock's direction. Irene was slow to react, and she pressed down on the release mechanism. Sherlock practically stepped _into_ the spray being emitted from the bottle.

The last thing Sherlock was able to glimpse as his eyes closed was Irene being shoved aside. His eyes began to _burn_. He forced his eyes open—but his vision was so blurred by tears that he needn't have bothered. Knowing to expect a knock-out left hook from his opponent, Sherlock tried to estimate what direction it would come from, and move away.

He miscalculated, and instead of avoiding the blow, he only reduced its impact. He felt the fist make contact with his face as a curtain of black flashed over his vision.


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry! Again, it took me an insanely long time to update. I was very distracted by school! Thanks, as always to the very supportive people who comment, favorite, subscribe, read, casually peruse, or even accidentally click on my story! You guys rock!

Honestly, my intention in this chapter was to modernize the TLC scene in the canon ASiB... you know the one ;). Well, modernize and elaborate on it, I suppose. So all credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle here. Aswell as the overall premise of the chapter, there are a few specific references to ASiB planted throughout the chapter, for fun mostly.

As always, I hope you enjoy! And always feel free to leave criticism!

* * *

The Science of Induction

_Sarah closed her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head, "Sorry __what?"_

_John pressed his lips together in a grim line, "Sarah, I'm sorry… it's just getting too dangerous."_

"_What, you mean what you do with Sherlock? I've seen the danger, John—I didn't run away then, and I'm not going to run away now."_

_John shook his head vehemently, "No, no—Sarah, this is different… this is worse. It's just… you have to trust me."_

_Sarah looked up at John from where she sat, "Okay, then explain it to me. How is it worse?"_

"_Honestly, the less you know about it, the better."_

_She stood, looking him square in the eye, "No… you can't just _do_ that. You can't just make that decision for both of us. We can talk about it, like adults, and come to a conclusion."_

_John shook his head, "This isn't a discussion, Sarah. I get to make the decision, because _I_ was the one on the way to _your_ house tonight when I was captured and _strapped to a bomb_." He took a calming breath, "And I'm not alive tonight because some brilliant thing Sherlock did, I'm not here tonight because I was particularly resourceful. I'm here, because the mad man who captured me _let me and Sherlock go_. He let us go because it suited him. And I can't help thinking…"_

_Sarah looked at her feet, and swallowed. She blinked up at him, and he noticed that she was blinking back tears._

_He licked his lips, "…Can't help thinking about what would have happened to you if they picked me up just a few minutes later—after I had arrived at your house. Because I honestly don't know… but I wouldn't have been able to stop it."_

_Sarah frowned, "I'm not some helpless doll that needs to be protected John."_

_John's eyes flickered closed for a moment. When he opened them again he responded chillingly, "When it comes to Moriarty, _everyone's_ a helpless doll that needs to be protected. Best hope is to not get noticed by him. And if you stay with me… and Sherlock… you _will_ get noticed."_

_Sarah never dropped her gaze. And though she remained silent, not being able to find the words to respond, her eyes spoke volumes. Her lips pressed together, looking betrayed, her eyes glossed with a kind of shocked hurt. John swallowed, turning away from her while she was silent—he wasn't sure if he could keep walking if she called after him to stay. _

_As John walked from her room, he knew that by making the decision for both of them Sarah would feel patronized, by describing the night's events she would feel scared, and by leaving her behind she would feel hurt._

_Somehow, John could live with that—after all, if she was feeling patronized, scared, and hurt, it meant she wasn't dead. He slipped on his shoes, pausing only once to glance over his shoulder. She wasn't there._

_He reached to open Sarah's front door, and walked through it abandoning the warm yellow light behind him. He closed it behind him, finding himself in the darkness._

_He took a breath, and began walking to the only place left to him now: 221B Baker Street. _

* * *

Sherlock lay on the ground—not quite unconscious, but dazed enough to have difficulty forming thoughts. _That _was very dazed indeed.

As his senses tuned back into focus he first became aware of the sound of heavy footsteps running away, next that he couldn't seem to smell anything except peppermint and iron, and finally that his vision was filled with the woman's face. Her large eyes seemed to be studying his face very astutely, her brow slightly furrowed with concern. The memory of how Sherlock came to be in this position—lying flat on the ground, teary-eyed, with a faint throbbing sensation on the right side of his face—came back to him in a flash. He sat up in a start.

"Woah, woah…. Easy there Sport. You alright? You took a heck of a hit…" Irene regarded him with an uncertain smile, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

In wiping away the tears from his face, he found that his nose was bleeding—_That explains the 'iron smell'._ Luckily, though, his assessment found that his nose hadn't been broken by the blow.

His mind turned to what was in his eyes—it hadn't been a _real_ defensive spray, like pepper spray or mace. The spray hadn't been a continuous stream—more of a quick spurt, and by this time the effects had faded to a dull irritation. Besides, there was still that overwhelming peppermint aroma, "Did you squirt _breath spray_ in my eyes?"

She winced, "Yeah, sorry abut that. We should probably try to flush your eyes out—"

Annoyed, Sherlock forgot to stay in the character of kind, unassuming Robbie Hart, "What do you think you were doing? I don't remember asking for your help."

Irene dropped her hand from his shoulder, and her eyes flashed with indignation, "Funny, I could say the same thing to you. The situation was _under control_ before you went all 'caped crusader.'"

"He was twice your size and he had a weapon." Sherlock scoffed, "Please enlighten me as to what your plan _was_… Were you going to offer him a doughnut in hopes he'd go away?"

Irene's face was the picture of sarcastic sweetness, "No, actually, I figured I'd scare him away by letting him punch me out-cold!"

"Had I known your plan, I would have blinded you with oral hygiene products," Sherlock retorted.

She shook her head as if he just didn't understand, "You almost got us _killed_!"

Sherlock looked miffed, "I almost _won_, actually—until _you_ interfered."

She rose to her feet, mumbling to herself, "Yeah, well, sometimes losing _now_ is the best way to win in the long-run." She turned to the sky. A cold drizzle had begun to fall, misting over the pair in the alleyway. Holding out a hand as if testing for rain, she smiled, apparently amused by some aspect of their situation, "My old man always _did_ say that every winner had to learn what it was like to fall somewhere along the line."

Sherlock looked unimpressed, "Let me guess… so they could 'learn how to get back up again'?" He finished the "inspirational" quotation in a mocking tone.

She turned to him again and gave an amused snort, "Nah, he just said that by falling down you learn how much you _don't _want to fall next time." She held out her hand to help him up. The small grin that seemed to scarcely ever leave her face played on her lips once again, arranging her features most pleasantly.

He accepted her hand, and eased himself up slowly. A hint of amused sarcasm played in his voice, "Well, wasn't he the philosopher."

She gave a nod and a shrug, "Among other things." She stepped back and looked him up and down, "So, are you okay?" She seemed hurried to leave—Sherlock guessed it had less to do with the coming rain than the fact that she was anxious to cut short any questions he might have about the situation.

Sherlock found himself in a most favorable position—without having to reveal his true identity, he could seek out the information he desired. He didn't stop to wonder why it was important to continue to hide his identity though they were alone and it was no longer necessary to trick her into revealing the location of the video, nor did he stop to wonder why it was important that he gained more information about her as her friend rather than her antagonist. Nevertheless, sometime between meeting her and now he had made the subconscious decision to continue to play under the guise of Robbie Hart until it was absolutely necessary to reveal himself.

"Just curious… mainly as to why an academic such as yourself seems to have such trouble with muggings. In the museum you said that you were robbed last week—this makes twice in a very short period of time. That's quite the coincidence, don't you think?" The drizzle intensified, cooling the atmosphere uncomfortably.

She shrugged, "I guess a black cat must have crossed my path or something. Speaking of cats, you might wanna remember what happened to the curious one." She turned from him speaking over her shoulder, "I appreciate what you did—it took a lotta guts—but please, just go back to your 'quiet life' and try to forget this ever happened."

Sherlock, though, wasn't going to let this opportunity pass. He reached out, gently catching her arm, "Tell me what's going on here."

She turned to him again, this time she looked up at him imploringly, "Look, this is a lot bigger than you think it is. I'm not some damsel in distress—I'm fine. I will be fine—but if you ask too many questions you might turn into someone's loose end. Okay?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No. It isn't." The drizzle was now rain, dousing the shoulders of Sherlock's borrowed jumper.

Irene pulled her arm out of his grip, and backed away, "Sorry, it's going to have to be."

Sherlock sighed—so she wanted to do this the hard way. He let out a groan, and clutched his head, "Oh! I'm dizzy…."

She stopped and looked back at him, the rain running down the sides of her face, "What's wrong? Robbie? Are you okay?"

"I_ think_ I could have a concussion. I might have to go to the hospital… I'm sure they'll recommend that I'd fill out a police report… when do you think you'd be available to come to the Yard to make a statement on the affaire?" He blinked his blue eyes innocently at her, his brow furrowed ever-so-slightly in sincerity. He was betting that she would want to avoid a police entanglement at all cost.

She rolled her eyes which subsequently fell on him, annoyed, "Let me guess… I answer your questions and your symptoms go away?"

He grinned impishly, letting his hand drop from his head—suddenly the picture of health, save his bloody nose and his slowly swelling face, "How clever for a social scientist."

She narrowed her eyes and waved her finger at him (the index one… but he had a feeling that if he pushed her a little further, he may get some variation on that front), "Watch it computer-boy!" She rubbed her forehead tiredly, wiping the water from her brow. She leaned back against the alleyway wall, head in hand, "Uggh, you're being _impossible_…" Her quiet exclamation was punctuated by another increase in rainfall—the water now beat down on them.

Sherlock nodded, "Yes. Now tell me what I _don't_ know." He easily ignored the rain, using his ability to compartmentalize the sensory information of his surroundings. For now, all his attentions were focused on the enigmatic young woman before him. When Irene continued to show hesitation, he tried another tactic, "I'm involved now… don't you think I deserve to know in what I'm involved?"

That seemed to do it. With an exasperated shrug, she finally seemed to give in, "_Fine_. Come on then. We can at least get out of this rain." She waved her hand indicating that he should follow.

Sherlock took a few steps to arrive at her side, and strolled at her pace out of the alley, "Where?"

"Well we could head back to my place—" she sighed. "Don't get too excited. I'm not flirting with you."

Sherlock sniffed the air indifferently, "The prospect of seeing your flat is hardly something to get excited about."

"True—but like you couldn't help but notice in my office, I'm not all that flat."

Sherlock stopped walking, as if he were suddenly rooted to the spot. He blinked "Sorry, what?"

Irene smiled and kept walking, "Thought I missed that, didn't you?"

Sherlock made a show of sighing heavily and rolling his eyes at her misinterpretation.

Something occurred to Sherlock, and he looked back down the alleyway. The criminal had run away—why? He was sure that Irene hadn't given the man what he wanted… what would have caused him to leave? When Sherlock scanned the alleyway he instantly noticed what _wasn't_ there: the knife the thief had dropped.

"Are you coming or not?" Irene called impatiently.

Sherlock looked back at her, holding her purse and her case in a way to try to save them from getting _too_ wet. He couldn't help but notice how her trouser pocket bulged obviously—as the small pockets of women's trousers tended to—in a way that it hadn't at the museum.

The fact that the shape and size of the bulge was about the shape and size of a pocket knife wasn't so disturbing as the fact that he hadn't noticed it before now.

* * *

John opened the door to the flat at 221B. It had been a long day at the surgery, and he was anxious to sit down in his chair with a cup of tea. On his way to the kitchen his eye caught on the smiley-face vandalism on the wall still in need of repair. He sighed heavily… somehow the vandalism brought to mind the phone call he'd received today.

He looked down grimly, only for his eyes to fall on more of Sherlock's mess. Sherlock's mess. Sherlock's vandalism. Sherlock's chemistry set strewn over the kitchen. Sherlock's mysteries. Sherlock's _world_.

John lived in Sherlock's world now… and of course, it wasn't always easy and it wasn't always safe. But it had always seemed _necessary_. It had always seemed _worthwhile—_solving problems, fighting the good fight, helping people. But was John really a necessary part of that anymore? Sherlock hadn't even _discussed_ Moriarty with John since the pool-side incident—save for Adler's case. And Adler was simply another of Moriarty's clients who needed his help for nothing more complicated than blackmailing her boss.

The flat, the cases… Sherlock _himself_ all seemed to be delivering one message: John wasn't really _needed_… he was just being allowed to tag along whenever he wouldn't get in Sherlock's way—whenever he might be helpful for things like giving Sherlock a boost through a window. When it came to the very important things—like working through the ranks of Moriarty's network of criminals to find the root of it all, Sherlock was proficient on his own.

John had never been overly open or reflective of his own emotions—even to himself. But now he realized that he hadn't necessarily been _blaming_ Sherlock for the fact that he had to leave behind aspects of his "normal life"—like Sarah—he had just been disappointed that there hadn't been room in Sherlock's world for him after he had done so.

Now John found himself caught somewhere between "the real world" and "Sherlock's world"… he didn't really no where to go from here.

* * *

Irene and Sherlock exited the cab scurrying though the rain into the refuge of the building.

"Next time I'm going somewhere _dry_…" Irene brushed off her shoulders sending a cascade of water to the floor of the corridor. She began to ascend the stairs. Irene cast him a look over her shoulder, "We would have gotten a cab to stop a lot sooner if you didn't insist on standing right beside me while I was trying to flag one down."

Sherlock followed her up the stairs, "_You_ would have gotten a cab. I imagine that I would have been left standing in the rain without the story that's owed to me. And I'm not so sure you _would _have been more successful in acquiring a cab by yourself anyway."

Irene laughed, "Please—between being drenched, bloody, and that "I'm homeless" sweater you're sporting, I don't even think Robert DeNiro would have stopped to pick you up. You're a pretty shabby-lookin' fare, you gotta admit."

About to protest, he glanced down at John's sweater and found that he rather agreed with Irene's description. Sherlock took his foot off the last step and continued to follow Irene part-way down the corridor to her flat, "This seems like a nice building."

Irene nodded, fishing the key from her purse, "Yeah, really nice. Very friendly neighbours." She stuck the key the door.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the myriad of locks, "So it would seem."

Irene smiled, "Well… you can't be too careful. I'm a sucker for sure-locked homes."

Sherlock, who had been examining the carpet outside of her door to get a sense of her comings and goings stiffened, his head snapped up, "Sorry?"

Irene pushed the door open and walked through, "Hm? Oh I was just saying that I like a secure apartment."

Sherlock studied her warily. She looked as if she was innocent of any double-meanings hidden in her statement.

"You know I think I just might have some clothes that might fit you, strangely enough… Come on, you can use my bathroom to clean yourself up."

Sherlock followed her into the flat, where he was lead to the toilet. She stooped at a laundry basket filled with freshly folded clothes just outside the door. She shuffled through it until she found what she was looking for. She presented him with a t-shirt and a hoodie. He looked at it distastefully, "And this is better than what I'm wearing, _how_?"

"It's _dry_," she told him flatly, shoving the articles of clothing forward. "How are your pants? I don't think I have anything that'll fit you…"

Sherlock accepted the clothes responding in a disapproving tone, "Irene, we've only just met, the state of my pants aren't really your concern…"

Irene looked like she was torn between being amused and being annoyed, "So, the boy _does_ have a sense of humour. I meant _trousers_."

"Of course."

Irene pointedly ignored the underlying sarcasm in his last comment, "_Anyway_, you can use my hairdryer to dry your _trousers_." She walked into the toilet grabbing two towels and a washcloth from the shelf. She handed him one of the towels and the washcloth, "Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee." After a beat Sherlock added, "Please."

"I'll get a pot going… and then we can talk."

He watched her walk to her own bedroom and then closed the door to the toilet.

A little dryer and much cleaner he wandered out of the toilet. He could hear Irene in the kitchen. She was shuffling about, singing softly to herself. Passing by the sitting room, he hung the damp jumper of his on the arm of her sofa to help it dry. As he was exiting the room, his eye caught on something. There was black a binder sitting on the table, amidst books and journals. She must have brought them home from the museum in her laptop carrying case. On the black binder was one tiny white label, written on with pretty, blue writing: _Finding the Golem_. He looked up gravely towards the kitchen, in the direction of the woman… _And the pieces slowly fall together, don't they Ms. Adler?_

The aroma of fresh coffee hit him when he walked into the kitchen. She was standing by the counter, pouring the steaming, dark liquid into two mugs. She cut her song short and glanced up at him, "Hey, Popeye, there's ice on the table for your face. You should probably bring down the swelling before you start getting a hankering for canned spinach."

Sherlock furrowed his brow—he didn't understand _half _of what she said sometimes. Her tone was never unkind, and he gathered that she generally used pop culture references to try and lighten the mood of a situation. Little did she realize that they were completely lost on him. He lifted the icepack to his face, "Why do you have freshly-laundered men's clothing?" The clothes were quite small on him, but would suit a small man, or a boy, well. They were—as he had said—freshly-laundered, which meant they probably had been worn recently. He knew she didn't have any frequent male visitors… so then why have men's clothing?

She gave a shocked giggle, "You're not allowed to ask me that!" She wasn't insulted—only surprised by the up-front question.

His brow furrowed, "Why not?"

She waved her hand, "It goes against… I don't know… British social conventions…"

"'British social conventions?'" The words left his mouth as if they were encrypted in some obscure code.

"Yes! As in 'it's not conventional to ask really personal questions,'" Irene looked at him as if he were an amusing cultural anomaly.

He shrugged, as he sat down at the table, "Well it hasn't been a very conventional day."

She shook her head, "I'm just not sure you're prepared for some of the possible answers to that question… what if I'm an occasional cross-dresser?"

"_Are_ you an occasional cross-dresser?" Sherlock asked the rhetorical question flatly—he obviously knew the answer.

She laughed, "Only when I watch TV—they're really comfy clothes."

Sherlock removed the icepack to give her his full glare. He was annoyed at her needlessly long production when the clothes turned out to be nothing more than a comfortable alternative to her work-wear, "Are you usually this secretive about nothing?"

She grinned, "Are you usually this nosey about everything? Now, what would you like in your coffee?"

He reapplied the icepack and leaned back in his chair, "Black, two sugars, please."

"'Black as the devil and sweet as a stolen kiss,' comin' right up…" she quoted sing-song as she spooned the sugar into his cup.

He raised his eyebrow at her as she placed the mug in front of him—he recognized that proverb, "When were you in Poland?" Finally recognizing one of her cultural references, he decided he could engage her in polite conversation on the subject.

She stopped, "How—?" She cocked her head to the side, "You give me a blank face at "Robert DeNiro" and "Popeye", yet you know the country of origin of an expression that

I use off-handedly?" She laughed, "You're in a world all by yourself, aren't you?"

He cleared his throat—apparently he knew too much about the wrong aspects of conversation. It was difficult for him to keep track of what it was he _should _know, and what was unusual for him to know. He looked down at his coffee, "Yes, well, I have very particular interests."

"Like proverbs?" She sat down across from him, cradling her own mug of coffee.

His mouth turned upwards, "A good friend of mine was Polish." A 'good friend' who was now serving a life sentence thanks to Sherlock's efforts.

"Ah…—but you knew I had actually _been_ to Poland, how?"

He nodded to the postcards on the refrigerator, "You seem to be a bit of a world traveler."

Irene glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the fridge, but following her gaze he found that she avoided looking directly at the letters. She looked back at him and tipped her head, "Logical."

His curiosity concerning the postcards piqued once more, he pursued the subject, "It must get lonely… never staying in one place very long."

She looked up at him briefly and then looked back down at her mug, "Um. Yeah. Sometimes. For sure." She looked up again, "But with my chosen field of study I'm always meeting new people, so it's not as bad as it might sound." She took a sip of coffee.

He studied her quietly for a moment—_then _it dawned on him: why she continuously travelled from place to place, why she never formed long-term attachments, why she was nice to everyone, why she _ate_ all the time,_ She has—_

"Penny for your thoughts?" she interrupted his line of reasoning, holding up a small copper coin as a prop in literality.

When she had caught his attention she slid the American coin over the table to him. He caught it under his hand. Sherlock looked up at her, "Just thinking about your situation."

She shrugged, "Well, you can _ask_. I did agree to answer your questions after all."

"Who was that man?"

"A crook."

He sat silent.

She shrugged, "Well, _I_ don't know! I didn't really stop to ask his name."

He continued, "Is he the one that robbed you before?"

Irene nodded, "One of the ones, yeah."

Sherlock tried to look surprised, "_One_ of the ones?"

She stood, "Well, I _tried_ to tell you this was bigger than it looked. There's this one guy… um, let's call him Mr. Smith. He keeps hiring these criminals—don't ask me where he gets this scum—to steal something from me."

Sherlock leaned forward over the tabled, dropping the icepack from his face, "Why haven't you gone to the police?"

She leaned against the kitchen counter and gave a sigh, "The thing is, I'm not exactly Bambi in this whole thing either. What they're trying to steal back is some evidence of Mr. Smith engaged in some… uhh… extramarital activities."

"Which you were blackmailing him with," his tone was flat.

"Well… '_blackmail'_ is kind of a strong word…"

"And the correct one." He sat back in his chair, and Irene avoided his gaze, "But why? Why would you go through all this trouble?"

She shrugged, looking disinclined to answer, "Is that really important?"

He nodded, "Yes, it is."

She rolled her eyes, "It's not all that interesting of a story. A while ago, I got a job working for Mr. Smith as his personal assistant—"

Sherlock interrupted, "A little below your caliber, isn't it?"

She shook her head, "Not really… anthropologists are all the rage these days—it's considered trendy to get a look at the 'big picture', I guess. He's a politician, and he thought getting a multicultural perspective would help his campaign. Besides, the price was right."

"And I'm sure your lack of experience in being someone's personal assistant didn't bother him."

She fixed him with a look, giving him challenging smile, "No, not really. And I suppose you have a theory at why that is."

Sherlock returned her smile humorlessly, "Well, you had to know your physical appearance had something to do with you getting a high-paying job for which you had no real experience."

Irene's smile faded, "I imagine it did have something to do with it. Honestly, I wasn't _really_ involved in the hiring process… Though, I _can _tell you why I accepted: because I knew I could get the job done."

Sherlock gave a smug sigh, "Never the less, I believe I can see where this is headed… sexual harassment in the work place."

She took in a deep breath, "You think that I have no reason to complain because I walked into it."

"I didn't say _that_," Sherlock did not condone Ormstein's advances considering his position, but right or wrong romance between bosses and their employees was not unheard of. If the situation boiled down to a misunderstanding… Irene's reaction seemed somewhat extreme.

Her brow furrowed, "Y'know, I'm not gonna do that tired old song and dance about how the world is full of lecherous men who don't take me seriously—because honestly, in my experience, it's not even that true. This was more of the exception than the rule. If there is one thing my experiences _have _taught me, though, it's that _I_ don't _owe_ anybody anything for how I look." She mumbled bitterly, "Apparently he disagreed with my philosophy when he fired me."

Sherlock sat up a little straighter, "_He_ fired _you_? You didn't leave?"

She snorted and hopped up to seat herself on the counter, "Well, I've been flirted with _before_. Yeah, considering he was my married boss it was pretty unprofessional, but I made my disinterest clear. I guess I hurt that conceited, spoiled, bullying rat-bastard's pride when I turned him down, though. And _now_ he gets to use _my_ campaign strategy to win his stupid election. How fair is that?"

He raised his eyebrows, "So, this isn't necessarily about his advances… it's a way of reclaiming your intellectual property. You're taking back what you gave to him—a chance at winning the election." He looked her over, suddenly more than a little impressed.

She shrugged, a sly smile on her face, "Well… I just thought this would be more effective revenge than TP'ing his house."

His lip twitched, in a flicker of a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He regarded her steadily, "But revenge was never what you wanted, was it?" He stood, wandering over to the refrigerator, lingering there for a moment, his eyes darting over the words and images—all representing all the people she left behind.

Confusion diffused over her features, "What do you mean?"

He walked towards her, "Even the need for revenge requires you to care strongly, though in a negative way, towards the desired recipient of said vengeance…" He was close now, peering down at her, "'Revenge' as your motivator… it doesn't really add up, does it?"

She met his eyes steadily, though he could tell that she was fighting to maintain her usually natural calm composure—he had hit a nerve. She shook her head slightly, "People aren't like those computers of yours, Robbie—you can't always objectively reduce them down to a series of ones and zeros and expect to be able to see them for who they are. You should be careful when applying the principles of deduction to humans… they often turn out to be more than just their parts "added up.""

Sherlock's head tilted, "What principles, then, do you suggest to apply to humans…? After all, _you're_ the expert."

She shrugged, looking up at him, "A peek at the context of the situation never hurt anyone… big picture and all that. You can't get every piece of information by testing specific hypotheses. Sometimes you have to look at the relationship between the hypotheses."

He snorted, "That sounds a bit like _induction_… A bit subjective isn't it?"

She smiled, leaning forward slightly, bringing her face even closer to his, "Don't knock it until you've tried it."

Intrigued, he raised an eyebrow, "Well, then… do I get a demonstration? What can you tell about me?"

She looked him up and down. Her nose scrunched up, and she let out a long sigh. She leaned back and crossed her arms, "Absolutely nothing."

"How disappointing," his voice conveyed that that was the exact response he foresaw.

Her tone was cool, "How could I come to any conclusions about you? You haven't been yourself all day."

He blinked in surprise, "Wh—?"

Whatever his reaction might have been was cut short, however, by a loud knock at the door.

Irene tensed, her brow furrowed in concentration, "Wait… what day is it today?"

Whoever had knocked had promptly opened the door, and was now making their way to the kitchen. A woman's voice called to Irene dramatically, "Did you lose track of time doing your research again?"

A short, stout, woman in her sixties entered the room a half a moment later. She dressed loudly, making use of an array of colours, most of which clashed with her light red hair—which was clearly the result of red dye on a white base. Sherlock knew that this must be the retired school teacher who lived across the hall—the sentry for Irene's apartment when Irene wasn't home. Her eyes fell on Sherlock standing very near to where Irene sat. She let out an amused cackle, "Well, well… if _that's_ what research looks like these days, pass me a lab coat and call me a scientist."

Irene hopped down from the kitchen counter top, looking vaguely mortified, "_Flora!_ That's… inappropriate. We were having coffee, and I guess I just forgot that we had planned our weekly dinner for tonight."

Flora rolled her eyes, "Never mind _that_… who's your gentleman friend?"

"Um, this is Robbie, from work. Robbie, this is Flora, my neighbour. She's teaching me how to cook… one night each week we cook something together. Then eat it. Obviously."

Sherlock smiled at the former educator, extending his hand to her in a gentle handshake, "Pleased to meet you Flora."

"Oh, surely, the pleasure's mine," she grinned at him. She held up a slightly damp woolen article that Sherlock assumed she had collected from the sofa, "I suppose this jumper belongs to you."

Sherlock cleared his throat, as he accepted the piece of clothing, "Um, yes, thank you. It was drying…"

She gave him a knowing look, "Hm."

Irene snorted, catching his attention, "_Oh!_ _"The man in the jumper!"_ That makes so much more sense than "The man in the dress"…"

Sherlock froze—he watched her facial expression change from amusement to thoughtfulness. He could almost read the question on her face… _"What man in a jumper would have been around my office about the time Peter Jones asked?"_…

It was only a matter of time before she put together that "Robbie Hart" both wore a jumper, and would have probably been in her office fixing her computer around that time. It was only a matter of time before _that_ thought led her to consider how coincidental that the man she had met that same day had just _happened _to be near-by to intervene in the mugging. That same man to whom she'd explained her morally questionable situation to.

"I need to go," Sherlock walked from the kitchen to the sitting room, pulling off the hoodie and the t-shirt in one shot, pulling on his own (still damp) jumper in one, smooth, continuous action.

Irene trailed after him, seeming to have forgotten all about the jumper, "You can stay for dinner you know… after all you _did _take a punch for me. I'm pretty sure that merits more than a cup of coffee."

"Thank you… maybe another time, I didn't know it was so late," he turned back to face her—she looked concerned about something. "I won't tell anyone," he assured. "But I recommend that you end it—tonight. Give "Smith" the evidence back… and that will be that. This game you're playing is getting too dangerous."

She shook her head, "It's more complicated than that…"

He drew in a long breath, "It usually is."

She held out her hand, something pinched between her forefinger and thumb, "You forgot this—it's yours."

He held out his hand, and she dropped the tiny object into his palm. He looked down at the tiny copper disk dubiously. It was the American penny.

She laughed, "It's a lucky penny—it might bring you luck in your _next _'showdown.' You obviously need it."

"I don't believe in luck," he gave her a look which seemed to scold her for believing in such superstitious nonsense.

"You _wouldn't_. Well, then, just keep it as a souvenir… a souvenir for a very unconventional day. How about that?" She smiled at his hand enclosed around the coin and he shoved it in his trouser pocket.

He put his hand on the doorknob, ready to exit—but he paused. He needed to know something first. He turned back to look at her once more, "Who do you think I am, then, if not the man I was all day?"

She shrugged, "A man in a world all by himself… A man I would very much like to meet one day."

Without so much as a "good day", he turned from her again, opened the door and walked through. Sherlock had all his answers now, and if she didn't return the video by tomorrow morning, he would confront her, and repossess the video. _Then_ she'd meet the real him, "Careful what you wish for."

* * *

Irene Adler watched him go. Not until the door shut did she allow herself to relax. She ran her hand through her hair, "_That's_ what I call _close_." She stared off into space for a few seconds, thinking about the unusual afternoon shared with the strange man. She gave a lopsided smile at the memory, "Sorry, Flora… I'm going to have to skip our dinner tonight. I have too much to do for tomorrow."

Flora peaked out of the kitchen, giving Irene the impression that she had been listening in on the entire conversation, "What's tomorrow?"

Irene smiled, though the smile made her look more melancholy than happy, "Tomorrow I leave London." She fell silent for a few moments—a silence that not even Flora tried to disturb. She looked up at he neighbour once more, "But first, I need to ask you a favour…"


End file.
